


Echo

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Daddy Kink, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Experimental Style, Frottage, Group Sex, Half-Sibling Incest, Humiliation, Identity Issues, Imagined Violence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Multi, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Parent/Child Incest, Power Dynamics, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape Fantasy, Roose is his own warning too, Seduction, Sexual Fantasy, Shame, Sibling Incest, Spitroasting, but everyone is messed up tbh, switching pov's, this whole thing is super messed up and you shouldn't read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-11-30 08:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11459463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Roose (and Ramsay) has a plan. Jon and Theon (and Ramsay) have longings. And Robb (and Domeric) has cravings.





	1. Look away and what you love is nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> so this is messed up as all hell, and I'm not 100% sure where it came from. It might have stemmed from a comment broi made about how there should be a fic where Robb and Domeric argue over who gets to be the sluttiest bottom, and then Jon Theon & Ramsay come solve the matter... which then got WILDLY OUT OF HAND AND SUPER DEPRESSING, because of course it did. Oh well.
> 
> Chapter titles come from Ted Hughes' "Echo and Narcissus," (translating a passage from Ovid's Metamorphoses).

****_The boy is too eager,_ Roose thinks as his bastard moves his mouth down over him, although too eager for what he is not sure – it's not as if the boy has anything to lose should his perversity be discovered. Still, Roose watches the drool slip down Ramsay's chin as he moans and gags with bemused disgust. The boy's mother was not so lewd.

Then again, she was not as enjoyable either, shrieking and squalling like a rat, her cunny wet with days of another man's use – were it not for those eyes, he might never have known Ramsay is his. But Ramsay, for all his wantonness, seems only to wish to be his father's to use, in which Roose is willing to indulge him. He has a distaste for needs of the flesh, most of all his own, but it is better to keep Ramsay preoccupied sucking his cock than have him inflicting his filth on the rest of the household, and leading Domeric astray. Domeric...

“Deeper,” he instructs, winding a hand through his bastard's cradle of dark hair and to his credit, Ramsay never fights him, he simply allows Roose's length all the way down his throat like his mouth has no other purpose. Roose imagines he is practiced, that the peasant boys he grew up with used to play together as such, that his bastard blood made Ramsay well-known and well-used among the village. _Like his mother._ That may be a discredit to the woman; she was a woman wed when he had her, albeit one who did not know her proper place, so he doubts Ramsay inherited his whorish ways from her. Then again, he would not be entirely surprised if she did turn to whoring to earn some extra coin after her husband's death, for he doubts she would make the same amount from the mill without him. Then again, who would pay?

Men would pay for Ramsay, albeit not very much – only a few coppers, really. He's too cheap, too willing, too lewd – whenever Roose commands him to his knees he always looks up so grateful, like he can't believe he's being given the chance to suck his lord father's cock. It's rather pathetic. Still, Roose supposes some men must like that.

Whoring is so far below him to be barely worth thinking about, but still, it makes something of an interesting thought experiment – how one would organise a brothel if he had to. You would have to have boys like Ramsay, cheap holes sturdy enough to have a dozen men a night, but such boys are common enough. What you would need more are other boys, boys of honour and breeding, boys too expensive to be had by all but a very few customers, but who would lure in men for the cheaper whores to make their coin off. Boys who would come to him untouched, and have to be taught how to use their bodies, to make themselves appealing while still maintaining the purity that is their greatest selling point. Boys like...

Roose releases his seed into Ramsay's mouth without warning, swallowing a groan as Ramsay swallows it all. _He said his name again,_ Ramsay thinks bitterly as the taste of salt floods him, _he's just using me. He wants the good son, the real son, the trueborn son, but he's not going to ruin his heir by fucking him. I'm just a substitute._

Ramsay wants to refuse his father. He wants to be a Bolton, he wants to be proud, he wants to think himself too good to be used in his brother's place.

But he can't.

Father simply sighs as his cock softens between Ramsay's bruised lips, not even bothering to pull it out. He does not look at Ramsay, and after a few moments, the pain of being ignored wins out over whatever scraps of his pride remain. “Father?” he pulls his mouth away with a pop, a line of spit and come linking them together, and he physically cringes he sounds so needy. “Did I do well?”

Lord Bolton's eyes flicker down to him a moment, and then he gives a nigh-imperceptible nod. “You performed your task admirably.”

Ramsay feels a lurch of shame as those words send a jerk through his achingly hard cock, ever so desperate for any sign of approval. _He treats me like a whore,_ he thinks, and he imagines binding his father to the cross, stripping away his lord's finery and then his lord's skin, showing him how a _true_ Bolton deals with being dishonoured so. But even in his own head, it is an empty threat. He knows that no matter what he might dream of punishing his father with, he would forget it all in a second if only he could have some hint that the man might care for him after all.

He smiles at his father, wondering, yet again, what he's meant to do now. “You know, I heard Lord Stark was planning on sending one of his sons to the Manderlys,” he says idly. “I think we should–”

Roose raises a hand to silence him. Ramsay oft does this, tries to play the wife afterwards, as if having swallowed Roose's seed will make him any more interested in the bastard's opinion. He does not bother to scoff. “You have your uses,” he corrects the boy. “Speaking is not one of them. You may go. I have nothing more to say to you.”

The words go through Ramsay like a knife. “...Fine,” he mutters as he pushes himself up, face twisting into a childish pout. He will not cry. _You'd let Domeric give you advice after he sucked your cock,_ but that's a stupid thought – Ramsay is not Domeric, he will never be Domeric, which is why he's the one who sucks father's cock and Dom is the one who gets to tell him how he thinks they ought to deal with the Starks.

But it's stupid, Ramsay thinks as he storms out, because he knows, he just _knows_ , Dom isn't at all what Father thinks he is.

Or if he is, he won't be for long.

* * *

Domeric's always been a light sleeper, and he knows Ramsay knows that as he comes stomping through the door, heavy footfalls easily waking him. Domeric winces as the bright moonlight streams through his window and into his eye. When he told Domeric his bed was open if the cold got too much, he expected his brother to take up the offer less open, but he knows he can't rescind it now. He stays still as Ramsay climbs beneath his furs and winds his arms around his waist, clinging to him like a child with a dolly.

Ramsay always smells dirty, sweat and filth and that servant who goes everywhere with him, but there's another smell now, a smell there often is, and Domeric knows he shouldn't say anything – if nothing else it's rather rude – but he can't seem to help himself. “You stink of seed,” he whines, squirming in his brother's embrace. “Have you been wanking in the privvies again?”

He does his best to make it sound like a jape, and Ramsay laughs at it like it's a jape too. “Mayhaps,” he says, and Domeric refuses to let himself imagine it: Ramsay with his breeches around his ankles, biting his pouting pink lips to keep the noise down, gasping as he fucks in and out of his fist, maybe even pushing his legs up against the wall so he can reach down with his fingers and...

Domeric is not very good at refusing himself things.

“I'm sorry, are you feeling left out brother?” Ramsay whispers in his ear, and Domeric shivers. “I thought I had to do it myself you see, but if someone's willing to help out...”

Domeric stiffens – he stiffens all over. He doesn't want to see in, locked away somewhere small and dark with Ramsay, terrified their father will find them, but unable to resist, receiving little whispers and moans of encouragement as he shyly works at his bastard brother's cock, pleasuring him with his hands and maybe even falling to his knees to... “Ramsay, don't,” he warns in his best lordling voice, praying Ramsay won't notice the burgeoning hardness beneath his nightshirt. “That is not funny. We're brothers.”

Ramsay simply laughs at him. “On the contrary, I think it's hilarious.”

He treats it like it's all a game, but Domeric knows it's anything but that, to the both of them. When he sought out Ramsay from the mill, this is not what he wanted. He remembers the miller's wife and the way she looked at him with tired sad eyes, eyes he couldn't understand back then. _Good luck,_ she said.

He wanted from Ramsay something like he had with Mychel. But with Mychel it was different – they could play together that way, for as much as they called themselves brothers everyone knew they shared no blood, and they both knew it really was all a game, two boys barely getting the hang of pleasure, daring each other to be brave enough to touch and kiss and suck, and even when Mychel got so daring as to push two fingers inside Domeric, just to see what would happen, both of them could rest easy in the knowledge that they were not deviants, and none of it meant anything.

But with Ramsay, it always means something. Domeric just doesn't know _what._

Ramsay is rather like Father that way.

“Just go to sleep Ram,” he says, and Ramsay quickly does so, snoring loudly into his ear. Domeric knows he will not be able to do the same.

* * *

Theon huffs in frustration as he slides a sword back into its correct place in the armoury. He wanted to protest when Lord Stark assigned him this task, wanted to say _I am no servant,_ but he knew that would do him no good – and too much whining might earn him the strap. Snow makes a particularly boring colleague as well, silently sorting sword after sword, doing nothing but making Theon feel oddly insecure about his own struggles with the system. The last time he spoke it was to point out Theon had put one of the half-and-half swords in with the two-handed ones. _What, don't like the bastards mixing in with the rest of them, Snow?_ Theon drawled, but Snow just glared at him and went back to work, making Theon even more frustrated. At least if Robb was here he might have someone to talk to.

But of course Robb's busy, off attending to some matter in the Great Hall with his lord father. _I should be there too, I need to learn to rule as much as he does._ But he knows if he was there it wouldn't make him feel any better, because whenever he is there Snow is too, and that's not right – Snow's just the bastard, he's not in line to inherit anything, so this sort of work suits him: if Lord Stark insists on having him about the place, why not get some use out of him? But Theon, he'll be Lord of the Iron Islands some day, he was a prince once, and he belongs by Robb's side, not Snow's. He's _better_ than Snow. He's as good as Robb.

 _It has to be done_ , Jon tells himself, because he's always telling himself that, that he ought to be grateful, that he ought to keep his head down and not make trouble, that he ought to bear Lady Stark's wary eye as if he doesn't even notice, and not lash out at Greyjoy's constant cutting remarks, even as the fury over what he said is still rushing through his veins, and Jon chances a glance toward him, wearing the same cocky smirk as always. Jon wants to hit him. He wants to throw Greyjoy against the wall and beat him senseless, hurt him again and again and again, until he begs for mercy, until he's sorry, sorry for everything he's ever said, sorry for ever coming to Winterfell, sorry for ever being born...

Sometimes Theon has nightmares: Lord Stark commands him to fetch his greatsword and Theon does it, as always, thinking he's off to behead a thief or a poacher or a deserter from the watch or some such thing. Jon and Robb ride out with them, as always, laughing and chatting together. He tries to win Robb's attention, as always, but the boy just ignores him. It's not until they come to a stop and he sees no criminal, and Lord Stark manages to grab his own sword, while Jon and Robb push him down onto the block, that he realises. He screams and writhes and wails, like a child who doesn't want to go to bed, but it does him no good. He looks up to Robb, to his only friend, begging for mercy, but only the cold eyes of Lord Stark look back.

Sometimes those nightmares are different though, sometimes he can earn his life – bent over the block he has to let them all have him, hard and rough in his mouth, his arse, any way and anywhere they like, Lord Stark and his heir and even Snow, even the bastard gets to fuck the prince of the Iron Islands, and it's _wrong_ , what his father would think of him, and Theon should rather die than allow himself to be degraded so, but he wouldn't, he doesn't want to die, so he allows it, and after awhile it starts to feel good, after awhile he's rocking back into it, moaning at the pleasure of being used like a whore by three men, and they notice, of course they fucking notice, and Robb is laughing in his ear: _is this all you wanted Theon? To be the wolves' bitch?_

Theon tells himself those are nightmares.

 _Robb could do it,_ thinks Jon, for Robb can do what he likes with most things – he will be Lord of Winterfell one day, and in truth, only their lord father and the king he's sworn to can hold any power over him. It's only Robb who can keep Theon in line, but he never will, because Robb _likes_ Theon, gods help them. Jon doesn't understand why, but he wishes he did, because if Robb seems some good in Theon there must be some, for he trusts Robb – and he's tired of fighting, and he would like to have another friend, one who's not a child like Arya and not so impossible to equal like Robb. He wishes he was more like Robb than Theon, but he doubts he is.

So they should be friends, and that was why he went along with Theon's stupid plan to have him give his virginity to that girl in the Winter Town brothel, because he wanted to feel like a normal man for once, who could buy a whore and laugh about it over ale with a friend afterwards, but of course he isn't, and he couldn't. Greyjoy can whore himself across half the north and that means nothing, he's just a man like any other, but Jon is a _bastard_ , he was born in lust and vice and so he can never indulge in it without proving everyone right, Greyjoy and Lady Stark, he has bad blood and he'll never be any good, never as good as Robb...

That destroyed their burgeoning friendship, because Theon was trying to do something nice for Snow, not just trying to help him get his end away but trying to give him _Ros_ , who's the best whore he's ever had, who's one of maybe four people in his life he's ever felt like he could talk to (it's her, Robb, Maester Luwin and once long ago, his mother) – and Snow threw his hospitality in his face, acted like he was too good for a whore, too good for Theon, _better_ than Theon who's had every bloody girl in that brothel, too much like the perfect little lord Robb, so fuck Snow. Ros probably wasn't even his type; he's probably some sort of deviant.

Jon knows he shouldn't get jealous, that Robb is allowed to have other friends, but he's not Robb's friend he's Robb's _brother,_ and Theon has always wanted to steal that from him, and it drives Jon mad, makes him want to throw Theon against the wall and tell him to back off, because he can't do that, because Robb is all he has. But he flinches to think of that, because it's not true, he knows it's not true – he has Arya and Bran and Rickon and even Sansa and his lord father. It would be truer for Theon than it would be for him, but still, it's not enough, it's never enough unless he has Robb, so maybe he's just being greedy.

He can imagine Greyjoy's smirk if Jon did that though, told him not to steal his brother. _Brother?_ And Jon shudders to think of what he imagines sometimes, because he's sick, his blood is sick, bad bastard blood that means he cannot love his brother as a brother should, no matter how hard he tries. _Robb could have anything he wants. He could have me if he wanted._ But Robb doesn't, because Robb is good, and Jon isn't, no matter how he craves it. He craves to be like Robb and he craves to be Robb's, and he knows he cannot have both – he can't really have either. _Would that be enough?_ he wonders. _Would I finally feel loved if I let my own brother make me his whore?_

And the two of them work together in silence at a task beneath them or perfectly equal to them, too good for each other and nowhere near good enough for Robb, because Robb is up in his rooms behind a locked door, having told his father he had a headache and needed to lie down, and he feels guilty for the lie but he feels guilty for so much else he barely notices. He's lying on his back beneath the furs, the sun pouring in through his window making him drip with sweat, painfully hot, but he can't bring himself to pull back the covers because if he did that he would have to look at himself.

He has his knees pulled up to his chest as he reaches down between his legs, reaching past his cock to push two fingers slicked with oil he pinched from the kitchens into his arse, biting his lip to keep the moans back, fucking himself desperately, rocking his hips back and forth until the bed starts to shake with the force of his movements. He imagines himself fucked, and he tries to temper that desire, to tame it into a small sickness, to imagine himself taken by a lover as a man would take his wife, but it never works – one man always becomes two, then four, then eight, then too many to count, and then he imagines himself as some sort of camp follower, on his hands and knees in a puddle of mud offering every hole to any man, having copper coins thrown at his head once he's done with, and in truth he never even remembers to count them because it's not the coin he needs, it's the cock, and he just lies there loving it as he's used again and again and _again_.

 _I am disgusting_ , he thinks as he pushes a third finger inside, barely even kept back by pain anymore. He imagines the looks and whispers if anyone knew the things he wants, if the North knew what it's son and heir really is, and then he sees himself on his knees in the Great Hall, kneeling in front of his lord father's chair with all the lords of the North, all his future bannermen watching, and thankfully it's not his lord father he's kneeling before, but who it is isn't much better. It's Jon, clad in white fur cloak and a silver clasp, looking every inch a Lord Stark of legend, and Robb is almost drooling even as he tells himself it's _wrong_ , they're brothers, but then Jon is grasping him by the hair and pushing him down onto his cock. It shouldn't even feel good that, not like being fucked does, and yet Robb thinks about it all the time, sliding his mouth over bottles and scabbards and his own fingers whenever he thinks no-one's looking, trying to get them deep down his throat without gagging, trying to make an utter whore of himself.

 _Slut,_ he imagines Jon snarling as he fucks Robb's throat until he's choking, until he can't even breathe, because Jon doesn't care if he can't breathe. Nobody does. Especially not him. _Everyone knows what you are now,_ Jon says as Robb ruts against his leg like an animal. _Deviant. Pervert. Brotherfucker. Do you think any of these men would want you for a lord now?_ And he hears them in the background echoing Jon's cruel words, telling him exactly what a slut like him is good for, and it's certainly not to rule. He sees his mother, watching over all of it in shame and horror, and he knows that watching Jon do this to him is every one of her worst nightmares come true but he knows that she knows how much he's loving it. He tries to stammer out apologies, but his mouth is full of cock. Jon whispers again: _if I told you to, you'd have every man in this room, wouldn't you?_

Then the fantasy changes, so it's not Jon who has him but Theon, he's tied up below decks on an Ironborn ship, naked as the day he was born, and it's so dark he can barely see his own hands and feet, but he can see Theon. Theon is smirking at him, gently stroking his chin, telling him he's the hostage now and Theon can do whatever he likes with him. Robb tries to protest, tries to say it was his lord father, it was King Robert, it wasn't him and Theon is his friend and he doesn't need to hurt him, but they both know it's all a lie. Theon just laughs at him. _I won't hurt you, little lord,_ he says. _I'll give you everything you've ever wanted_.

And then he's tied up above desks, over the mast with his mouth and arse open to all, ready to be made the whole ship's whore, the whole ship's hole. The even eats and sleeps there, being spoonfed a thin gruel on the rare occasions his mouth isn't full of cock, waking in the morning to find some man fucking him, and his thighs wet with seed as if he was far from the first. He'd try and protest at first, because he's a lord, because he's a man, because he's a good boy and would never do such things, but after a few days it would be clear how much he loved it, craved it, that nothing tasted good to him anymore but come and his arse felt empty whenever it didn't have a cock in it. He'd love it so much that when Theon cut his ropes to tell him his ransom had been paid, Robb would have to fall to his knees and beg him not to honour the deal, _please, I don't want to go back, I don't want to be Lord of Winterfell, I just want to be a whore, I just want to be a hole, I just want to be fucked..._

That fantasy scares him the most of them all, the thought he'd _choose_ not to be what he was born to be, that he would abandon his family, his duty and his honour to be nothing but a willing fuckhole. But, he tells himself, it's all just a fantasy; he would never really do these things. But he wants...

His fingers aren't enough for him anymore, they haven't been for months, so he pulls them out and rolls over onto his hands and knees, the furs sliding down and hanging precariously around his waist. With wet shaking fingers he fumbles for the candle he keeps on his bedside table, and sometimes he's afraid someone will realise why he goes through his candles so quickly. He coats it in more oil, and candles and cooking oil – he is perverting the things around him, he knows that. But not the people. He buries his face in the pillows as he reaches beneath the furs, his other hand clutching at them to try and cover himself, and then he pushes the candle in.

Robb cannot smother a moan then, try as he might, and the candle is long but it's not long enough, he can't get it in as deep as he craves – part of him wants to push it all the way in until his hole closes up around it, but he's afraid to – what if he couldn't get it back out? What if he pierced something important? What if he really does hurt himself? This isn't safe, he knows this isn't safe, but he sees no other option.

He moans as he starts to slide the candle in and out, mimicking the motion of being fucked, and then he sees Jon again, his own brother, face twisted in contempt as he splits Robb open on his cock. _Whore_ , he spits over Robb's back, a little drop of slaver landing on his shoulder, and Robb licks lips, desperate for something in his mouth but he has nothing, not even any free fingers. _Isn't he just?_ he hears Theon chuckle as he fucks Robb's throat, both of them using him from either end, laughing merrily together as the piece of willing flesh between them moans in delight as they fuck him hard and rough, as they beat him and choke him and spit on him and insult him. _Slut. Bitch. Cunt. Hypocrite. Liar. Lordling–_

Compared to some of his fantasies this is tame, and yet the shame rolls through him regardless. _They would not do that to me._ Jon and Theon both love him like a brother, and they would never hurt him so, no matter how much he dreams of it. His mind not only disgraces himself, but it slanders them also. _I love you both, I know you wouldn't do all this, I don't know what makes me so sick. Please, forgive me._ But Robb wants it, wants it so much he sometimes thinks of throwing himself before them and begging for it, telling them if they truly love him they'll give him what he needs before he drives himself to madness, but he could not do that to them. _They are my friends and my brothers, they are men of their own honour, they are not toys for me to pleasure myself with._ Besides, he knows they would not love him anymore if they knew what he really was – wanton, shameful and sick. Who possibly could?

 _But this isn't me,_ Robb tells himself as he thinks the candle isn't thick enough either, and so he pushes a finger inside alongside it, gasping in pleasure in pain at the stretch. Then he can't escape the thought of the both of them fucking his arse at once, because his hole is too used now, and one cock will never be enough for him again. _What a good fucking whore,_ Theon whispers as Robb takes two cocks with little more than a whimper. But it's not him, not really, it's only a dream of him, same as the young lord who learns from his father and listens to his mother and gives all the North pride. Robb might be sick at heart but he will not spread that sickness; he will wed the girl his father chooses for him and sire sons on her and never know what it's like to be fucked by anything other than his own hand or household objects, and he will not ruin the boys who love him like a brother.

And that's what he tells himself as he fucks himself desperately on his candle behind closed doors, and he hasn't even touched his cock but he doesn't need to anymore, he just needs to be fucked and he's ready to come, he's _going to come_ , and then Domeric wakes up with a gasp, filthy dreams flying from him as soon as he opens his eyes, but leaving him soaked with sweat and hard as a rock. Ramsay is still wrapped around him, sleeping like a log and also hard against his arse, and it would be so easy to push back against him. To roll over and slide beneath the furs to wake his bastard brother by sucking his cock. To simply grind his arse against Ramsay's prick while he strokes his cock until he comes.

But Domeric doesn't do that; he pulls himself out of the embrace and gets up out of bed, shivering in the freezing morning air, rushing over to his basin to tame his prick with cold water. Domeric would not do such a thing.

* * *

Lord Stark does mean to send his heir to the Manderlys – only for a few weeks, it seems, but still it gives Roose pause. He does not like the Manderlys, with their Seven Gods and harbourside city - he thinks them all but Southerners. Any influence they might have over the future Warden of the North is probably too much. So he writes to Lord Stark, inviting his son and heir for a visit. Only for a few days.

It will probably be good for Domeric also, to have a young man of about his age and about his status here. It might lead him away from his brother's influence.

Then, with a curiosity that is admittedly probably more foolish than he would allow himself, he adds another request. He knows Lord Stark has his own bastard, and while Lady Stark is usually careful to keep him hidden from view, she may allow it simply to have a few days rid of him. And Roose is curious about this bastard – if he is the same as Ramsay: as needy, as whorish, and as dangerous. He wonders if he could use this boy to tame Ramsay.

Then Roose decides to push his luck.

He has no hope Lord Stark will agree to send him the hostage, to entrust him with the task King Robert foisted upon him, but he does wish to test how foolish the man can be.

Roose enjoys testing other men. And when Ramsay sidles into the aviary and learns the contents of that raven off a terrified birdkeeper, he thinks that he does too.

 


	2. None dared be familiar, let alone touch him

The Dreadfort frightens him just as much as it did the last time he was here, when he was no more than five years old and he had Father's hand to cling to. But he knows he must be brave, for he is more-or-less a man grown now, and Father trusted him with this task. _I'm sorry to do this to you Robb, but Lord Bolton has requested your presence and I must know why. I do not trust the man, and so I must act as if I do. I promise if someone happens I'll come get you, but I need you to be brave._

At least he has Jon and Theon with him, and while they'd laugh if he tried to hold their hands the way he did Father's, it does make him feel better not to be alone. Though he almost feels guilty for that relief, if he's putting them both in danger unnecessarily. But Bolton requested them also. _I do not know why,_ muttered Father, and Robb got the distinct impression he might not be telling him everything. _But keep an eye on Theon. We do not know what his father might be involved in._

Robb badly doesn't want to think about that.

The castle is full of rusty reds that make him think of dried blood, and dark passages that lead to places he doesn't want to know about. The serving girls do not smile and the serving men smile too much. When he was a child, Jon made him promise to bring back one of the Boltons' legendary Stark-skin cloaks, a task in which Robb failed, but he thinks they're both grateful for that fact right now.

Lord Bolton scares him too, his face unnaturally still, his eyes unnaturally blue and cold. The colour of death. He shakes Robb's hand most politely, and Robb knows he has no real reason to be scared of him, but still, something about the man is just... off. At least his son is reassuring, his eyes a more human colour, a warm hazel brown he must have inherited from his mother. There is also the bastard, who is allowed to step forward and introduce himself once all the highborns have already done so. He and Jon shake hands, but there seems to be no special connection. Robb is faintly relieved.

Domeric can tell how hard Robb is trying not to be scared, and he sympathises, so as soon Father is out of earshot he's quick to walk by the boy's side with a smile. “You don't have to worry about him,” he says, nodding to his father's back. “He's a little intimidating, but he's not bad really.” Or so he tells himself. He's heard whispers and rumours about his lord father, but he's never pried into them, afraid of what he might learn – he tells himself he can't, it's not his place, he's the heir to House Bolton and he cannot undermine his lord father.

Still, Robb doesn't need to know that.

“I'm not scared,” Robb insists, and Domeric simply raises an eyebrow at him. He sighs. “Alright. But you'd be scared too if you'd been told all your life how many of your ancestors were turned into cloaks in this place.”

“You don't need to worry. You Starks have lousy skin, those cloaks don't provide any warmth at all. Turning you into one would be pointless.”

Robb laughs at that, and Domeric laughs too, glad to have put the boy at ease. He tries not to worry himself, tries not to wonder what Father has planned for this visit, or what Ramsay does.

* * *

The bastard is hiding, he has been ever since he and the lordling and the hostage arrived, cloaked in black lurking in the shadows as if he's afraid he's not allowed to be here, and if anyone sees them they'll send him right back. _Fool_ , thinks Ramsay. He always dresses in fleshy pink and searing red, and stomps around as loud as he can, leaving his tracks in the dirt. If anyone ever does want to get rid of him, he vows he will not make it easy to do so, nor to forget him after. “Jon Snow,” he says cheerfully, and the boy jumps as soon as he's noticed. “My father wanted me to speak with you.”

Jon's brow knots together in a frown. “He did?” he asks. “About what?”

Ramsay shrugs. “I mean nothing in particular, really. Think he just wants me to keep you distracted so the highborns can get on with things.” And he nods up to a tower where Father and Dom are explaining something to Lord Robb, who's looking out the window with a face full of vague anxiety. Jon Snow says nothing to that, only frowns deeper, and Ramsay takes the opportunity to examine him. Oh, he's a pretty one, all black curls and pouting pink lips – Ramsay can imagine exactly why Lord Stark's been keeping him around now, and well, no wonder Lady Stark must hate him. Ramsay doesn't remember his own father's lady wife well, he thinks he only saw her about twice before she dropped dead right out of nowhere, but he's heard the lady of the North is less than keen to have another woman's son under her nose all the time. Interesting, that.

“So, how are you finding the Dreadfort?” Ramsay carries on, as if he's just making smalltalk. “Any warmer than Winterfell?”

Jon shakes his head. “No. Winterfell has the hot springs, it's actually very warm.” He gives a shy smile. “Honestly, I'm freezing my bollocks off.”

Ramsay lasts at that as a knot of anger twists in his gut. He remembers that from his lessons now, lessons Dom is always slapping him over the head and telling him to pay attention to, which he never does – to his father's continued disappointment. Winterfell is built around hot springs, and that's not fair – it's called _Winter_ fell after all, and even in front of the hearth wrapped in a red velvet cloak Ramsay feels so cold in this castle, so why should Jon Snow get to be warm when he isn't?

“Sorry about that,” he says. “If you like I'll have one of the servants draw you a hot bath.”

Jon shakes his head and averts his eyes. “That won't be necessary,” he mutters, and Ramsay cocks his head to the side curiously. _He doesn't like asking for things._ Ramsay doesn't understand it, because he is the exact opposite – he demands everything to which he's entitled, because he knows he won't get shit otherwise.

“As you wish,” he says, letting a lull fall in the conversation. He looks back up to the window, and sees the little Lord Stark has turned his back. “He's handsome, your brother, isn't he?”

Ramsay has to fight not to laugh aloud at the look of shock Snow gets then, eyes wide and bugging. _He thinks I know exactly as much as I do._ Ramsay doesn't want to let on yet though. “Shame our lord father doesn't have a daughter to marry him to.”

He likes saying such things, following along the game off marriage and alliances, but as soon as he says it doubt creeps into the back of his mind. He feels like he's forgotten something, some very obvious reason Father _wouldn't_ do that, and now Father is mocking him, the fact he'd be so stupid to even suggest such a thing, the fact he can't remember why it's so stupid even now, and then Ramsay scowls. No. He will not allow his father to make him feel stupid inside his own head.

Snow doesn't answer that, and Ramsay sighs and continues. “He doesn't look much like you though,” he says. “If I didn't know, I wouldn't take you for brothers.”

He watches Jon flinch, and smothers a smirk. _You can't hide from me, bastard,_ he thinks. _I know you. I am you._

“He takes after his mother,” Jon explains.

“And you take after your father?” Really, he's just guessing there, but Jon nods. Ramsay laughs. “I bet she loves that.”

Jon averts his eyes. “Please don't.”

Ramsay can't help his face twisting into a sick grin, watching Snow sink into himself in pain like a wounded pup – and Ramsay has caught the sent of blood. “Are you and your step-mummy not close then?” he asks, and only grins wider as Jon doesn't answer. “Shame. She's a beautiful woman.” In truth, Ramsay has never seen Catelyn Stark so he wouldn't know, but he's heard she is – apparently she's responsible for a fashion for redheads in brothels throughout the North, according to an old customer from his mother's mill, a man so ugly Ramsay's sure he never had a woman he didn't buy. Before her the trend was to dark-haired girls, wild and wilful, like the late lamented Lady Lyanna. Ramsay shrugs. “I'd fuck her.”

Snow looks up at him, mouth hanging open in shock and outrage, and Ramsay simply raises his eyebrows. “Oh, don't tell me you've never even thought about it,” he says. “Making the haughty bitch spread her legs for you, burying your bastard cock in her ginger cunt–”

“I – she'd never – she hates me–”

It's _adorable_ , the way Snow stammers for words to defend the honour of a woman who wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire. Adorable, and sickening. “Oh aye, but wouldn't that make it better?” he asks. “Making her curse and spit and fight you, making her vow she'll have your head for this, and then making her take it all back, because as soon as she has your cock inside her it just feels so _good_ she doesn't want anything else–”

And then Jon's imagining it, having Lady Stark on her back in his chambers, her legs wrapped around his waist as he plows her like a whore, pulling her hair and spitting in her face, and she moans like a whore too as he pins her wrists by her sides, sobbing and begging in his ear. _Snow – Jon, Jon, please, I need to come, let me come, please Jon, please..._

_Call me son,_ he'd tell her.

He shoves the Bolton bastard away so hard he falls to the ground. “You disgust me,” he spits. _But not as much as I disgust myself._ “I will tell your lord father about this.”

To Jon, that threat would be enough to cow him into anything, to make him beg for mercy, but Ramsay Snow simply laughs. “Do what you like, bastard,” he says, and then his eyes flicker back up to the tower window to see Robb Stark, looking out again and probably wondering what all the commotion is about – but his eyes aren't on Ramsay, who's the one his laying about in the dirt, they're on his brother. Always on his brother. Ramsay smirks. _I know you too, lordling._ “Doesn't he take after her?”

* * *

The hostage is getting in the way of things though, keeps catching Ramsay's eye when Ramsay doesn't want him to. It's making him angry. He wonders why his father invited the hostage anyway, why Lord Stark allowed it, and he wonders if Father would do it just to spite him – or did he suspect Ramsay would be up to something?

Greyjoy isn't like a bastard, he's highborn, but he's not like Dom and Robb – not so infuriatingly perfect. He's all lewd grins and cruel japes and groping the serving girls. More like Ramsay himself really, and he wonders if that's what highborn men are like on the Iron Islands – if _that's_ where he belongs, yes an Ironborn warrior, meant to rape and plunder all day. But Theon Greyjoy doesn't look much like one of those himself, he wears too much silk and velvet, he looks like an expensive boy whore – Ramsay thinks as he wraps his cloak tighter around himself. _Bet if Father wanted_ him _to suck cock, he'd do it in a heartbeat,_ Ramsay thinks. _He'd do it for anyone. He's just a slut._

Ramsay grits his teeth. He doesn't need to think about this, he is trying to _focus_. Still, if Theon is like Domeric (and Robb) in one way, it's that sense of superiority – and he doesn't even try to hide it, doesn't play the perfect son and heir who doesn't need to act like he's better than you because he _knows_ he is. He's just a prick. And he's driving Ramsay mad.

“You!” Greyjoy shouts at him one night as he makes his way down the corridor. “Fetch me another fletcher of wine, will you.”

Ramsay grits his teeth and turns to face this lordling. _I will kill him,_ he thinks bitterly. _I will rip the skin off him, I will mash his hands and feet unto blood and pulp, I will tear his tongue out so he can't even scream for help..._

But he needs to focus. “I am not a servant,” he declares, doing his best to imitate his brother's haughty manner, his father's certain self-assurance.

Theon just shrugs. “Close enough, right?” he grins. “Your lord father isn't having you at the dinner table like a trueborn son. So he has to be using you for something.”

And suddenly he's against the wall and Ramsay's arm is over his throat, staring up at him with those blue eyes wild and furious, and _fuck_ why does Theon let his big mouth get him into these situations, Bolton's bastard hasn't even done anything to him, Theon's just being a prick because he's pissed he got sent here with Snow. He thought it would be him and Robb, two heirs to great houses ready to conduct diplomacy on their fathers' behalf, but then Lord Stark said the bastard was coming too and it was so fucking _humiliating_ , like Theon's no better than him, and Lord Bolton hasn't even spoken to him, all he cares about is Robb, he's barely even noticed Snow or Theon is here.

And now, even Bolton's bastard thinks he has the right to knock Theon around, to slam him against the wall and choke the life out of him like you know Snow wants to, but never would because he's too fucking good for it, too well-behaved, even the bastard is better-behaved than Theon, and Theon should be angry at this Bolton brat and his presumption but he can't think without the air going to his lungs, his head is spinning and he can feel his blood rushing south...

Ramsay's anger fades a little when he notices a heat against his thigh, and he looks down curiously to see the Greyjoy boy's prick swelling in his breeches. _Oh._ He presses harder, and Greyjoy only gets harder. Ramsay smirks. _He likes it. Of course he likes it. Boys like him always like it._

He could fuck Greyjoy right here in the corridor where anyone could see them, good and hard with a hand around his throat, making him choke out his whines and moans and his pleas for more. He could spit on Greyjoy and call him a bitch and a cunt and a hypocrite, and Greyjoy would only want him more. He could leave the little lordling's arse red and wet and loose, ready for Ramsay to give him over to all the guards to have a turn with. That would win their loyalty. He could do everything Theon wants.

He could do everything Theon doesn't want too. He could take him from being chained to a bed to be fucked to being chained to a cross to be tortured. He could fuck him with things other than his cock, with a knife or a hot poker – not sharp enough, not hot enough to kill him, but enough to make him wish they would. He could cut Greyjoy's fingers clean off if he doesn't know how to use them well enough, and then the boy would be so eager with his tongue, lest Ramsay do the same thing to him. He could cut that fucking prick of his right off, because he's just a hole to be fucked, he doesn't need it, better he not get confused. Then, once he had Greyjoy utterly broken, beaten and bloodied, toothless, limbless and cockless, begging to be killed, begging to be put out of his misery, Ramsay would whisper in his ear: _what's the matter Greyjoy? Isn't this how you like it?_

Ramsay's hard himself now and Greyjoy probably thinks he's about to get a proper seeing to. He has to close his eyes and breathe in deep. _I need to focus,_ he reminds himself. _Someday,_ he promises. _Someday, I'll tear this boy right in two. But not now. Not before Robb, and Dom._

He opens his eyes, and gives Greyjoy the sweetest smile he can muster, as if he doesn't notice how hard the disgusting little pervert is at all. “I'll fetch that wine for you, my lord,” he says charmingly, pulling his arm off Greyjoy and listening to him gasp, leaving him to press himself so tight against the wall you'd think Ramsay still had him pinned.

* * *

“Lord Stark? You dropped something.”

Robb turns his head to see a boy behind him – Ramsay, that's his name, the bastard. Robb saw him when they came in but they haven't really spoken. “Oh,” he says, and looks down to see something silver shining in Ramsay's palm. His direwolf brooch. He quickly grabs it back. “Um, thank you,” he says, embarrassed to have lost it. “I didn't notice.” He's embarrassed of that too.

“That's quite alright, my lord,” says Ramsay, his mouth twitching curiously, almost as if he's repressing a smile. Then he drops his eyes to the floor. “Well I'll just – I'll go–”

“Wait, wait, hang on,” says Robb, pinning the brooch back to his jerkin. “That's not necessary. We haven't really spoken yet – it's Ramsay, right?”

“Ramsay Snow,” he says forlorn, twisting his fingers together. “My father didn't want me speaking to you.”

_Because you're the bastard._ Robb flinches. Even his mother doesn't keep Jon hidden away completely. “I mean I'm not going to tell,” he says, and smiles. “We can talk. I'm not like that.”

“If you say so, my lord,” says Ramsay Snow, still not looking convinced, pouting a little – gods, he really is like Jon. Robb tries not to flinch at the thought. “What did you want to talk about?”

“...er...” Robb scratches the back of his neck. “I didn't really think of that.” And they both laugh. “Alright then, what do you want to want to talk about?”

Ramsay hesitates a moment, his eyes dropping back to the floor. But when he peers up at Robb shyly, he wears no blush. “We could talk about you, my lord,” he says.

Robb blinks. To be entirely honest, he often feels like he spends far too much time talking about himself, and he's not sure why this boy would want him to do so more. “What about me?” he asks, bemused.

“I'm not sure,” Ramsay shrugs. Then he steps closer, mouth twitching as if he can't quite hold his smile back anymore, and he's a lot shorter than Robb but still, Robb feels himself slowly backed up against the wall. “But since you got here, I've been... watching you. You're intriguing.”

Robb's breath hitches as Ramsay leans in close, too close. “I'm not sure your lord father will be pleased with that,” he japes weakly, and maybe he does been to remind this boy of his station, that he shouldn't push his luck, which might be cruel but Robb just needs something to cling to. His head is spinning. Either way it doesn't work, Ramsay says nothing as he places a hand against the wall, half-pinning Robb and yet not touching him, his wrist barely brushing Robb's shoulder. Robb flinches and turns his head. “Ramsay – you can't – I'm heir to Winterfell–”

_And I wouldn't let you do this, I wouldn't let you have your way with me,_ but Ramsay simply chuckles at him. “You promised you wouldn't tell,” he teases, his free hand coming around to Robb's hip, holding him gently, while the hand on the wall moves down, making its way over Robb's chest, and Robb whimpers softly as his palm brushes a nipple. _He's nothing like Jon,_ Robb realises. He's more like Theon, whispering in the blushing maid's ear to seduce her, but even so–

“It's wrong,” Robb insists, but his voice falters as Ramsay's hand moves further down and impossibly softly closes over his prick, hardening rapidly in his breeches. Robb gasps quietly.

“I know, all wrong. The little Lord Stark could never. And yet you want to real bad, don't you?” His hand tightens then, squeezing Robb's prick and Robb can't help himself, he moans aloud then. “You see, I knew it the second I saw you. What a slut you are. Gagging for cock, aren't you?”

_Yes, gods, yes._ Robb whines as his prick jumps at the sound of those words. He's not unattractive, this Ramsay Snow, all dark curls and pouting pink lips like Jon, and wicked blue eyes like Theon, and then he shifts his hips so Robb can _feel_ him, hot and hard against his thigh, and Robb moans aloud at the contact. It would be so easy to give in, to let this boy he's known all of five minutes give him what he craves, what he couldn't let himself ask of Jon or Theon, but he can't, he's the heir to Winterfell, and how could he do that to his lord father, to his lady mother, to his brothers and sisters, to Jon and Theon–

“Turn around.”

Robb does so without question.

_But I won't let him fuck me, I'll stop it before it comes to that,_ he thinks even as Ramsay grasps him firmly by the hips and pushes his cock firmly against his behind, only the fabric of their breeches keeping him from sliding right between Robb's cheeks. Ramsay groans as he pulls Robb back, telling him to grind against him, and Robb does it, by the gods, he does it. There are whores who wouldn't beg for cock so shamelessly.

“That's it, that's a good fucking slut,” Ramsay mutters in his ear, and Robb can only whimper, dazed and confused, as the bastard's hand finds his prick again, so wet he's leaking through his breeches. “You're just a bitch in heat, aren't you? You going to let me fuck you right here, in the corridor where anyone could see us?”

_Yes. No._ Robb doesn't know the true answer, and so he simply moans. He can see it though, being fucked hard and rough by this man he barely knows, for all the Dreadfort to see, for Jon and Theon to see, to finally learn what a whore Robb really is, and maybe then they'd feel entitled to their turn... gods, this can't be happening. This is all some filthy dream of his, isn't it?

“Ramsay – please–”

“Oh that's right, beg me for it,” Ramsay laughs in his ear, thrusting up against Robb's arse harder and faster, and Robb whimpers in return. “Tell me what highborn sluts like you want. What they deserve.”

“I – I want – I deserve–”

“Ramsay!”

The two of them jump apart as Domeric starts in the doorway, huffing in fear and anger, because he doesn't try and fool himself about Ramsay's depravities but this isn't some serving wench, this is Robb Stark, Lord Stark son, their future liege lord and does Ramsay have any idea what Father will do to him if he finds out? He doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed of himself, grinning childishly as Ramsay pulls him away, hissing into his ear: “What in all seven hells do you think you're doing?”

Ramsay shrugs. “Well nothing, at the moment. Lord Stark, I would have been, before you so rudely interrupted.” Domeric wants to slap him. Robb _does_ look ashamed of himself, still facing the wall and wrapping his arms around himself, and Ramsay must have done something, must have tricked or threatened him somehow, because Lord Robb Stark, whose father trusts him enough to conduct sensitive diplomatic missions alone, wouldn't do such a thing ( _I wouldn't do such a thing,_ Domeric tells himself). Ramsay is smirking at him. “What, are you jealous?”

Domeric really does slap him then, and Ramsay only smirks wider. “To your rooms. Now,” he spits like he's talking to a disobedient child, and Ramsay, thank the god, pouts but obeys.

“As you wish, my lord,” he says with one long lingering glance back at Robb, who still hasn't turned around. Then he walks off, and once Ramsay's gone Domeric rushes over to Robb's side.

“Lord Stark,” he says, sounding horrified, “I'm so sorry, are you – Father was trying to keep him away from you, but – are you alright?”

“Fine,” mumbles Robb, and gently, Domeric lays a hand upon his shoulder.

“I mean it, if he's – _hurt_ you, I can talk to Father–”

“I'm fine!” Robb shouts at him, finally turning back around so Domeric can see the tears on his face. His heart hurts then. _What has Ramsay done?_ But then he looks down and sees how hard Robb is, and he blinks. Now he's just confused. Robb takes a deep breath. “Forgive me, my lord,” he says. “I didn't mean to be rude. But I can't stay. I – I have to speak with my companions.”

Then he goes too, and Domeric feels like he doesn't understand any of the people around him. _Or myself._

* * *

Robb can't actually bear to face Jon and Theon right now, not in his state – and he doesn't even know where they are – so instead he flees back to his rooms, hiding like a child. _I wouldn't really have let him fuck me, I wouldn't have let things go that far,_ he tells himself, but it's hard to make himself believe it when all he can think of is what could have happened in that corridor, him bending over for a nigh-stranger's cock, with the man spitting in his ear what a fucking whore he is for letting it happen – and he feels sick to admit it, but he wishes it did happen.

After about a quarter-hour where his arousal stubbornly refuses to subside, he gives in and takes himself in hand, fisting his cock and fingering his arse dry, hissing in pain all the while but wanting it, always desperately, pathetically wanting it, and then he finds himself sobbing as he licks his own seed off his hand, and he knows there's no hope for him. _I'd have let him have me. I'd have let anyone have me._

Mayhaps about two hours later, he's woken from a sleep he didn't realise he'd fallen into by a knock on his door. He panics a second, but then he realises he's still mostly clean and dressed, and gods be good, he hasn't dreamed of anything to make his prick hard again, so he calls: “Come in!”

It's just a serving girl, and she bows her head demurely when she sees him spread upon the furs. “Forgive me, my lord. I didn't mean to wake you. Lord Bolton wished to see you in his solar, that's all.”

Robb nods, pushing himself up off the bed. “That's quite alright,” he tells her. _Yes, this is what I need. To be myself again, to be Lord Stark again, and forget the whole thing._ “Just give me a moment.”

He doesn't worry about what Lord Bolton might want from him – not until he gets there. Bolton doesn't pretend to have been dealing with other matters until Robb enters, he simply sits there, waiting, and it catches Robb off guard. “Lord Bolton,” he says. _I can deal with this. Father trusted me._

“Lord Stark,” comes the reply, and Robb waits for Roose to invite him to sit, but he doesn't, and so Robb remains standing. “My son came to see me earlier.”

Robb's heart drops through his stomach. He doesn't know which son Lord Bolton is referring to, and maybe he's panicking unnecessarily, but – _they both know, they were both there, and now he might know and he's meant to be my bannerman some day, he's my father's bannerman, he could tell Father–_ “I–”

“Apparently, he caught you in an altercation with my bastard,” Lord Bolton carries on. “He seemed quite concerned. He thought Ramsay might have attacked you.”

“No, no, that's not what–” Robb doesn't even know what did happen, but how can he say Ramsay attacked him when he wanted it so much? “We just – we were talking and... things might have gotten out of hand.”

He can't fight the blush that rises to his cheeks, and Lord's Bolton's face shows no change, and yet somehow Robb knows that he knows now. “I see,” he says softly, and his eyes drift down Robb's body, only deepening his blush. He thought any stain there might have been surely would have dried, but now he's not so sure, and he wants to cover himself with his cloak but then he remembers he's not wearing one. _Stupid_. And absurdly, his prick twitches once more at the humiliation. “Ramsay did not attack you. You wanted everything he did to you.”

Robb could cry from shame. “I'm so sorry,” he blurts out, unable to bring himself to deny it. “I swear, it'll never happen again, I didn't mean it to, I would have stopped before it went too far, by the old gods and the new, I wouldn't have – just, please don't tell my f–”

Roose raises a hand to silence him. For a long moment, he just stares. “Turn around.”

Robb doesn't understand, but he does so without question. Mayhaps Lord Bolton means to show him something, some portrait of an ancient Stark king who the Boltons had buggered to death or somesuch. He searches the walls for such a portrait, but finds nothing, and really, if such a man existed wouldn't Robb already know about him? Theon would never shut up about it. When Bolton speaks again, his voice sounds closer now. “Kneel.”

He obeys that order without question also, wincing as his knees thud against the cold stone floor, wondering what on earth this man means to do with him. _I am his liege's son, he can't do anything to me I don't allow,_ but that doesn't help because Robb is so afraid of what he might allow. He waits for further instructions, but none come, instead there is a cool hand between his shoulders, covered in a thick leather glove, and it pushes him gently so he has to put his arms out to catch himself and not fall on his face. Then Robb finds himself on his hands and knees, like the bitch Ramsay said he was, and Roose lets out a quiet hum of satisfaction. There's a pause while Robb listens to the snap of leather coming off skin, and then he feels cold, nimble fingers at his breeches. _No. No, he cannot mean to..._

“Lord Bolton,” he gasps as his breeches fall down to his knees, leaving him half-naked in another man's solar in the middle of the day, and he does not move a muscle. “What are you–?”

Lord Bolton is not a man to waste time, and so as soon as he's bared Robb feels two fingers coated with _something_ , something thick and wet and better than his cooking oil, pushing against him and pushing inside him, and Robb moans loud enough for all the North for Winterfell to hear as he feels himself breached, only by a couple of fingers but by another man. _Is he going to fuck me? Gods be good, I want him to fuck me._

Bolton's fingers are slow and relentless, driving down to the knuckle without stopping and Robb takes it so easily, not like before when he could only shove one spit-soaked finger in him in painful greed, and he almost cried because he wanted more but his body wouldn't take it. Then Bolton crooks his fingers in rhythm, spreading Robb open, and Robb moans as he feels something graze against that spot inside him again and again and _again_ , and Bolton hardly even seems to do it on purpose but still, a drop of fluid spurts from his achingly hard prick and Robb is lost.

A third finger joins the first two and Robb gasps in pleasure, whining and whimpering and rocking his hips back into the movement, shameless as any whore. _Don't, it's wrong,_ some part of him still wants to say, but he dare not speak lest the words turn into _more, more fingers, more cock, fuck me please_ in his mouth. He doubts Bolton would listen in any case, he has not spoken a word since he ordered Robb to his knees and he might have forgotten whose hole it is he's spreading open, might have forgotten Robb is anything but a hole, and why does that thought always have to make him harder?

And then the fingers are gone and Bolton's cock is against him, _Bolton's cock is in him_ , and Robb cries out a desperate, strangled “Yes!” for all the gods and all the servants and anyone else who might be listening to hear. It's not that thick, but it's _long_ , so long, long enough Robb's afraid it might split him in two but that doesn't ward him off, and he knows now he will not stop, he can't stop, it wouldn't matter if his mother and father were both here and watching his shame with their own eyes, he wants this, he needs this too much. _Mother, Father, forgive me – but you bred a whore._

Bolton still does not speak to him and Robb can't even see him and that's almost enough to let him pretend it's not really happening, that it's all one of his fantasies, because it's so much like one of his fantasies: being fucked like this by a man he barely knows and who does not care who he is. But it's real, and that makes it all as awful as it is wonderful. _There will be consequences for this,_ he tells himself, but it's so hard to care when he can feel hot hard flesh buried inside him.

He tries to think of Jon, or Theon, or both of them, but like this he _knows_ they would never do this to him, they are not like Lord Bolton, not like his bastard, and that thought is terrifying because what if Robb has spoiled even his fantasies now? What if after this he'll _need_ real cock, and once he goes home he'll have no idea where to get it? He tries to think of Jon, tries to think of Theon, tries to think what they would do and Theon has a hand wrapped around his throat as he wanks himself behind a locked door, and he never bothers to lock the door when he wanks, not even when away from home (because when is he at home?). Still, he tells himself it means nothing, that he's not really choking himself, not like the Bolton bastard did to him last night and when he moans aloud he's not thinking of that, he's thinking of some girl back at Winterfell, of Ros or Bess or Kyra or one of the hundreds whose names he's forgotten, because that's what he does, because he's Ironborn, because he's a prince, because he's a man.

He's Ironborn, he's a prince, he's a man, and when he lets go of his cock to rub and jiggle his balls he wants to reach down and slide a thumb inside himself as well, but no he'd never do that, because he's a man, because he's not a deviant, because he's not a _whore_ , thinks Ramsay as he peers through the window, and he never thought there was anything in the world good enough to keep Father from noticing whenever Ramsay's doing anything wrong but apparently Robb Stark's arse is it.

This is not what he planned, and in some ways this is better than what he planned but still, Ramsay's jealousy is a wild and untamed beast, and he wants to just rush in there and pull Robb Stark off his father, smash his pretty face in, scream at him _stay away from my father, slut!_ but he knows Father would be angry with him for that. _But it's not fair,_ he thinks, whining, because Father is his, this is the closest thing to love he gets from his father and Robb doesn't need it, Robb could get it anywhere.

_The boy is no virgin,_ thinks Roose as he pushes himself fully inside the Stark heir his hole spreads so easily to swallow him whole, clearly well-trained and well-used. _The whore has probably had half of my staff already,_ he thinks, and it's mildly disappointing, but it is his own fault for thinking he could simply trade one highborn boy for another – _Domeric would never be so lewd_ , he thinks. Not even Robb's hair is right, red curls instead of black locks, straight as an arrow. He sighs. Still, he has begun something and he intends to finish.

He also has no intention of softening Ramsay's punishment. Even if he's certain Robb Stark loved every second of it, Roose will not have his bastard taking liberties with his betters.

Robb moans and begs and thrusts his hips back as Roose sheaths himself inside him, and Roose almost smirks in amused disgust at the boy's shamelessness. Idly, he pulls back, as if readying himself to start fucking the boy properly – and then he stops. To his credit, young Robb gets the hint quickly. _Like Ramsay would._ Within a few seconds he's bracing his hands against the floor and pushing himself up and backwards, fucking himself on Roose's cock, and moaning like a bitch in heat as he does so. It's amusing, if nothing else.

Still, Roose tires of the game quickly, so eventually he takes Robb by the hips and holds him still for him to fuck in and out of. He wonders if Robb thinks his little whines of 'oh, Lord Bolton, fuck me, please' had anything to do with it. Robb loves it more the rougher Roose is with him, and the boy really would do anything – he would let Roose put him in stocks for the whole castle to use, if he so wished. That thought almost makes him smile, imagining the look on Ned Stark's face, but he knows he shouldn't – he intends to give the Warden of the North his heir back in more-or-less one piece, as pleasing as it would be not to.

“Oh _please_ ,” begs the young Lord Stark, lost to the world, and Roose looks down curiously to see drops of white across the floor – Robb has not spent yet, but he's clearly not far from it. “Lord Bolton, please, may I come? Please, my lord, I want – I would like to come.”

And _that_ gets under Roose's skin. Robb Stark is nothing but a slut, no better than any girl you'd find in Winter Town, and yet the way he asks that question – polite, demure, and obedient. _Domeric would ask like that._ Before Roose knows it he has a hand around Robb's throat, and he listens to the boy gasp for breath as Roose whispers in his ear:

“Call me Father.”

_Don't you dare!_ Ramsay wants to scream, because no, Father's cock is one thing, but he isn't Robb's father, he'll never be Robb's father, and Ramsay knows Father is thinking of Domeric and it's just not fair – even a boy who'd have given it up to a boy he barely knows two hours ago and is giving it up to a man he barely knows right now is better than him, is more like Dom than him, just because he's highborn.

Sharing with Dom will be one thing because Domeric is a Bolton, for all he never acts it, and so Ramsay is willing to give him Father's cock if that's what it'll take to make the little lord Bolton just like him, but the little lord Stark is just some slut and he doesn't deserve that, so Jon hacks and slashes at one of the Boltons' training dummies, trying to expel all the sinful, cruel, traitorous thoughts from his mind but not working, no matter how loudly his steel strikes the straw the sound of Lady Catelyn sobbing and pleading is louder.

It was the fucking Bolton bastard, he put these thoughts in Jon's head, but Jon isn't like him, he's good, he's loyal, he'd never do the things he's hard as the sword he's wielding thinking about. Robb cries as Jon takes him, telling him it's wrong, they can't, they're brothers and Jon only wants him more for that, he sneers in Robb's face, telling him to cry to his mother. She cried too, she cried for Jon to do what he wanted with her and leave Robb alone, and Jon agreed, he made a vow, and then he fucked her senseless before moving on to her son laying by her side, laughing at her look of shock – _come now my lady, what would you expect from a bastard?_

He has them lain out side by side on the table in the Great Hall, and all the lords of the North are watching as he takes them one after another, again and again and again, he finally takes what he wants – all the lords of the North but he only has eyes for one of them, he's only looking at _**“**_ Father–” Robb whines helplessly, and he sobs as he imagines what his real father would say if he saw what Robb is doing, how Robb is besmirching their family name, but he _needs_ to come, he needs it more than he needs to breathe, which is good because Roose's grip on his throat only tightens at that word, and Robb's head is spinning and he can't even moan anymore, then Lord Bolton thrusts in deep and stops, letting out a low groan. Robb doesn't understand at first until he feels the pressure on his neck release. _He's come_ , he thinks, and a shiver runs through his whole body as he's thrusting himself back on that slowly softening cock again, so close to spending himself.

When Bolton pulls himself out Robb can feel seed starting to drip down his thighs, and he's had so many fantasies like this. A dozen images flash past him, of Bolton spreading his legs in front of a mirror so he can see what's become of his hole, or of Bolton wiping the come up with his fingers and offering it to Robb to eat – but when he looks up he finds Lord Bolton lacing himself back up and sitting down in his seat, now turning to paperwork. Robb's stomach drops.

“Lord Bolton,” says Robb, still on his hands and knees, “you said – if I called you Father – you'd let me–”

“I said no such thing. It is not my fault you made incorrect assumptions,” says Bolton, fixing him with those cold, blue, dead eyes.

Robb turns his head and sobs again. This has always been part of his fantasies also, to be used and then discarded without any care for his own pleasure, but in those fantasies he always managed to come on the end of a cock anyway – and the idea loses some appeal when he thinks of what it will be like to have to sneak back to his room and toss himself off in shame and loneliness.

“You may go. I have nothing more to say to you.”

 


	3. Then cast her up on the shingle pregnant

Domeric is used to waking up in the middle of the night because Ramsay is in his room.

Three other men being there with him, however, is less usual.

He blinks, taking in the fuzzy vision, wondering if he's dreaming it. “Have I acquired my own small council?” he japes weakly, trying to get a hang of what is happening. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he can make out faces – the Stark boys (by which he means the Stark boy, the bastard boy, and the Ironborn hostage). Of course it is. Still, he's given pause. Robb Stark is standing there, looking nervous enough to cough up his insides but still, he makes no move to leave. You would think he'd refuse to be anywhere near Ramsay, after what he tried. Domeric still blanches when he thinks of what he told Father, of betraying his brother like that, but he had no choice – Robb is their liege's son, and doing anything else would be tantamount to treason.

The more he thinks of it, it's strange that Ramsay is there also. He thought Father would have scourged his hide at the very least – part of him was afraid Father would take Ramsay's head, but whatever Father is, he's not a kinslayer. But Ramsay walks around just fine, smiling smugly to himself like he does when everything is going just as he planned. Domeric is starting to feel rather ill himself.

Robb knows he shouldn't be there, he should never have come. He told himself he wouldn't when he returned to his chambers, still hard and humiliated, and found a note in the rough, unsteady hand of a boy who'd learned his letters quite recently, telling him to be in the east wing on the third door on the left at midnight. _He wants to finish what he started,_ Robb realised quickly, and he swore that he couldn't, not after what he'd let Lord Bolton do to him, how he'd let the man degrade him, how he'd degraded himself – he wouldn't really do such a thing twice in the one day? But as he finally tossed himself off it all came back to him, how good it had felt, how much he'd wanted the Bolton bastard, Roose and Ramsay and Jon and Theon all mixing and merging in his mind, all fucking him hard until he came all over his hand like the filthy slut he _knew_ he was now.

And then, at midnight, sure enough he found himself in the exact room Ramsay had told him to be, and when he saw Domeric's long dark hair on the pillow he'd been terrified, had thought he must have made a mistake, but before he could creep away there was a hand on his mouth and another around his waist, giving his half-hard prick a squeeze. _Shh,_ Ramsay whispered in his ear. _He's a light sleeper._

Ramsay didn't let go until the door swung open again and Jon's sullen face poked through, and when he saw the Bolton bastard clutching at his brother like that he'd been ready to fight, ready to help Robb, ready to defend him from the boy's perversion (ready to prove it was not his own) – but then Ramsay let go and raised his hands in surrender, and Robb gave Jon a pleading look, telling him not to cause a scene. Jon, as ever, deferred to his betters.

Theon also doesn't know why he's there, but when he got the note he thought, if the Bolton bastard wanted a fight then Theon ought to give him won. He couldn't have it said that such a lowborn boy sent the Ironborn prince running scared. He can take him. He can take all of them.

A fight. That must be what Snow wants.

“Ah, brother, you're awake,” Ramsay cooes as Domeric _finally_ deigns to grace them with his conscious presence. “Good. We've all been waiting for you most eagerly.”

Domeric looks around the room, confused, and the Stark boys all look just as confused as he is. Ramsay grins, knowing he's the only one who has any idea what's going on, and he plops himself down on Domeric's bed and helping himself to his brother's pitcher of water. Ale would suit him better, but still. “See, I heard Dom, you and our lord father had a bit of a chat earlier. About our Lord Stark here, and me.” He waves vaguely at Robb, who blushes deeply, and the hostage and the bastard both look at him curiously.

“Ramsay–” says Robb.

“Hush,” Ramsay dismisses him, his eyes all on Dom. He does take a certain pride in the fact Stark does shut up when Ramsay tells him though. _Probably thinks he'll get a reward._ Ramsay's still a little mad at Dom for telling, considers it a violation of their brotherly bond. _Fucking snitch._ But still, it's all worked out – he's got Robb exactly where he wants him.

 _Except I wanted to have him, not Father. I didn't want the stupid slut anywhere near Father._ But Ramsay is making do, and he'll have his turn soon enough – he just won't be so gentle this time.

“Ramsay, I had to,” says Dom, brown eyes so fucking serious. “What you did–”

“I know, I know. I would have expected nothing else from my noble big brother.” He reaches out and pinches Domeric's cheek, and grins at how the little lord flinches. “Still, I think you might have, ah, misinterpreted events.” He turns to Robb. “Do you want to explain it to him, Lord Stark?”

Then everyone turns their eyes to Robb, much to Ramsay's satisfaction, and the boy blushes and drops his gaze to the floor. “I – we–”

Robb is stammering, and Jon's heart sinks through his stomach. _Oh gods, Robb, what has he done to you?_ What would Father say if he learned Jon and Theon had let Robb be harmed – _because I was busy thinking about hurting him myself,_ Jon thinks with horror, _and while I was keeping myself away from him for fear of what I might do, someone else took advantage._ Could the Bolton bastard have had it all planned?

“Struggling for words, m'lord? Figures.” Ramsay chuckles as Robb's face burns red, and he just wants to _flee_ , but he can't make his body obey him. _No, please, don't tell them, the way they'd look at me I can't..._ but he realises the Bastard of Bolton has no real reason to take pity on him. What has he gotten himself into? “Still. You have to ask yourself, Dom, if I hurt our little lord so much, why did he come here when I asked?”

Theon scoffs. “Why did any of us come here?” He has no idea what's going on, but he's sure Robb's just overreacting, they all are. Robb is Robb, he doesn't get into real trouble. Not like Theon. Then Ramsay fixes him with a look that stops Theon in his tracks, makes him shiver in the cold night air, and it feels like he's being pierced straight through.

“That's a good question, m'lord,” murmurs Ramsay, and gods the things he could do to that smug prick, show him exactly what he's here for, but no, he has to focus. Dom is right there. “But let's have our honoured guest go first, hey big brother? Come now, Lord Stark. When you came to this room, what did you think was going to happen to you?”

Robb is on the edge of tears now, because he _can't_ , he can't tell them what he wanted, what he did, but he can't seem to keep the words back either, and he's just on the edge of screaming _I wanted you to fuck me!_ when he hears the words: “gods be good Ramsay, leave him alone.”

Domeric is almost as red as poor Robb is now, and he knows Ramsay is doing it on purpose, is trying to embarrass him – even more than he's trying to embarrass Robb. Domeric has gathered enough: Ramsay means that Robb wanted what he caught them doing, that he came back for more, and if so – well Domeric is surprised, to say the least; he wouldn't have thought Robb Stark to be so lewd or so foolish, or willing to dishonour his family name so. But still, it is none of his business, and he will not humiliate the boy in front of his brother and friend. If Ramsay's just trying to prove a point, why did he bring them along anyway?

Robb blesses the gods and Domeric, but his reprieve does not last long, because then comes a quiet voice: “Robb? What did you do?”

It's Jon, and no, not Jon, Robb can't lie to Jon. Jon knows him too well. “I–” he finally looks back up and meets Jon's eye, a strange mix of concern, suspicious and confusion, and Robb can't bear it. “We – I–”

“Oh spit it out Stark!” barks Theon, because he's never been known for his patience. He's sure all this is nothing, things like this always come to nothing, Robb will be just fine and Ramsay Snow will get a right thrashing from his lord father for being such a pest and then they'll get to go back to bed. “Unless he's been fucking you up the arse, what could possibly be worth so much trouble?”

Robb blushes even deeper then and Ramsay laughs in turn, pushing himself up on his knees. “Er, not quite, though not for lack of trying. Someone has to spoil all my fun.” He sticks his tongue out at Domeric, who curses under his breath and moves as if he's about to hit him, but of course Dom's much too proper for that – still, Ramsay notes how he's moved, his knees keeping the sheets elevated above his waist. _See, it's working._ “But not your pretty little lordling, oh no. He was all up for it. Would have let me have him here and then, if we'd had the time.” He pauses as Robb turns his face, trying to hide his shame, while anger spreads across Jon Snow's face as he realises, and Greyjoy's eyes simply go wide. “Afraid I didn't get the chance. But my lord father...”

Stark whimpers pathetically, while Domeric slaps Ramsay's arm. Ramsay grins at him. _My poor big brother has no idea. He will though, soon. He'll know about Father, and Father will know about him._ “Should have figured he'd insist on having first go. Stickler for hierarchy, that one. Still, it was a bit greedy of him – we could have easily shared you.”

Jon just stares at Robb, still trying to hide himself, hide his shame, and yet even in the dark Jon can see his prick swelling beneath his nightshirt at what Ramsay describes. _It can't be true,_ he thinks, but that thought has to battle against and then loses to _but it must be true._ Jon's fury grows. _How could he? What will Father say? He knows Father doesn't trust Lord Bolton. I would never have, because I wanted to be good, I thought he was good, I thought he'd hate me, but what right does he have to hate me, he would have let himself be had by the first man who asked, the fucking slut..._

“Robb,” he hears himself saying, voice low and raw and not even sounding like his own, “did Lord Bolton fuck you?”

Robb chokes back a sob, then nods. “I had to, Jon,” he whispers. _Lies, lies._ “He – he knew – Domeric told him what he'd seen, I didn't want to fight him...”

Guilt hits Domeric immediately. _I've done this to him_ , he realises, and from the look on Ramsay's face he has a sneaking suspicion he was meant to. “Father wouldn't do that,” he insists, but really, he has no idea what Father would or wouldn't do.

Ramsay cackles wickedly. “Oh, that's it Lord Stark,” he says as he crawls off the bed, coming close to Robb, so close he sees those ice-blue eyes blown wide and black glittering in the moonlight, and Robb knows he should _move_ but it's like he's been frozen to the spot. “Play the soiled maid, go on, tell them how the nasty mean Boltons tricked you, forced themselves on you. Tell them you didn't love every second.” Then Robb gasps as Ramsay squeezes his prick again, and despite himself he can't help a shiver of pleasure running through his body, nor how he groans and bucks toward it as Ramsay starts to stroke him through the fabric.

 _Fuck, Stark, have a little self-respect,_ thinks Theon, but Robb is clearly far past that point, moaning like a whore as he thrusts into a bastard's hands. _This can't be happening,_ he tells himself, because none of this lines up with anything he knows about Robb – and he always thought he knew everything about Robb. But clearly it _is_ happening, and so Theon fights desperately to make it make sense. _Alright, Robb's a deviant. So what? Aren't greenlanders all deviants, not real men like us Ironborn? Fuck, I bet he has a tight little arse. If the Boltons want to have a go on him, and he's alright with that, who am I to intervene?_ He ignores the knot of jealousy that tightens in his stomach.

But Jon can't. Robb is moaning and whining and rutting and Jon can just imagine the look on his lady mother's face if she knew what her precious firstborn was debasing herself to. _I would have done you right, my lady,_ he thinks. _I would never have touched him, no matter how much I wanted to. I let a stranger steal that from me._ “I saw you, little lord,” whispers Ramsay in Robb's ear, and he laughs at how the Stark lordling sucks in air as aroused as he is terrified. “So go on, tell me you didn't want it. Tell me you didn't crawl on your hands and knees for my father's cock as soon as you could. Tell me you didn't push yourself up and fuck yourself on it when he wouldn't give it to you fast enough. Tell me you did beg and whine and plead for him to make you come.” Over Stark's shoulder, Ramsay very deliberately catches his bastard brother's eye with a sickening smirk. _This is what he's like,_ he means to say. _This is what they're all like. He's not too good for you. He's not too good for anybody._

“Tell me you didn't call him Father while he fucked you.”

Robb wails aloud and Jon feels sick with lust. _He called him Father._ His head spins and his blood rushes in anger and need, his prick pulsing insistently against his thigh. _How could he do that to our family?_ He imagines the look on Father's face if he knew, if he saw his heir whoring himself to the Boltons, not even just Lord Bolton but his bastard son, the dishonour that would bring on their house. _More dishonour than I ever could._

Then Ramsay lets go.

Robb gasps for breath like it was his throat Ramsay was clutching, not his cock. His head is spinning and this is wrong, everything is wrong, they all know now and they can't, four men are watching him and they all know what a slut he is, and if this were one of his dreams he'd already be on the floor offering every hole, but this isn't a dream and so he doesn't know what to do, but Jon is coming closer and he can't be, Domeric knows he should intervene, like he did before, but he can't move, not least because he has to hide his cock, rock-hard beneath the sheets. _It means nothing, I'm only watching,_ he tells himself as Snow and Stark draw so close, almost over the line, but as he moves away to give them his space Ramsay throws a smirk at Dom. _What do you want?_ he wants to ask.

Jon's eyes are black and he does not say a word as he winds a hand through Robb's hair. _It means nothing, Sansa's played with my hair a thousand times,_ Robb tells himself desperately, but Sansa's never looked at him like that. Jon just stares at the red locks between his fingers a moment, examining them. _He has her hair._ Anger swells up inside him and he yanks harshly, hearing Robb gasp in pain and watching his cock jump beneath his dress. _Whore._

Ramsay grins at Domeric as they both watch the show. _That's it, big brother. See how good it is, how much he likes it, what a fucking slut he is?_ He chuckles to himself. _Go on, hide your cock beneath the sheets like a good boy. But you'll be begging me for it by the end of the night._

 _Fuck_ , thinks Theon, uncomfortably close to awareness. _Stark, I hope your arse is worth it._

Jon and Robb are stuck staring at one another, caught in a trap – neither can go back, neither is ready to step forward. After a moment, Robb, ever mindful of his courtesies, starts to stammer out words: “Jon – we–”

And then Jon smashes his mouth down on Robb's.

Stark puts up even less of a fight for his own brother than he did for Ramsay, or Father, he thinks as he watches the two of them melt together, perched carefully on the end of Dom's bed. Stark moans like a whore, again, his mouth opening easily for Snow's tongue, hands squeezing at his arse, rubbing his cock against his brother's belly, and then Jon groans and turns them around, pushing Robb across the room and down onto the bed.

Ramsay laughs as Dom has to jump out of the way to avoid a crushed foot, but those two don't have eyes for anyone else, and Theon can't ignore the throb of jealousy anymore, no more than the throb of his cock. _Robb wants him so much,_ he thinks, and blinks almost as if he's fighting back tears, which is ridiculous. _Look at them. The fucking perverts. I've never had a whore moan like that for me._

Robb is gasping, moaning, squirming on the bed and he can _feel_ Jon's cock pressed against him, and oh gods it feels big, he wants it, in his mouth and his arse and everywhere Jon can fit it, he wants to be made a tool for his bastard brother's pleasure, he wants to be made a tool for anyone's pleasure, but still part of him screams _it's wrong_. “Jon–” he gasps with teeth in Jon's bottom lip and his legs wrapping around his waist, “–we can't – we're brothers–”

And Jon spits in his face.

Robb gasps in pleasure and perhaps the rest of them gasp in shock, thinks Theon, or at least he does, because surely Snow didn't just actually do that? Surely he's not stupid enough to think the bastard can get away with spitting in the lord's face?

But Jon isn't thinking, he's done with thinking, with worrying, with trying to be good, because if the Heir to Winterfell is nothing but a slut why should the bastard try and be any better? “Shut the fuck up,” he snarls, imagining the look on Lady Catelyn's face if she knew what he was about to do. “Shut the fuck up, you shameless little whore.”

And Robb – the Heir to Winterfell, Robb Stark, first trueborn son of Lord Eddard Stark and his wife, Catelyn Tully – bites his lip, nods, and spreads his legs.

Jon is disgusted, but that disgust only arouses him further. Roughly he shoves Robb's nightshirt up above his nipples, as Robb arches his hips into the air to help him. Jon stares at the expanse of alabaster skin covering hard muscle, dotted with freckles and the odd bruise from training, and in the middle of it all his cock, red leaking. No smallclothes to cover him. Figures. “You knew you were going to get fucked, didn't you?” he spits, and Robb only moans in answer, squirming for Jon to touch his cock – and Jon doesn't. “So desperate one cock a day isn't enough, you have to sneak around in the middle of the night for more. You wouldn't even have cared if you'd found the right room, would you, just have crawled into bed with whoever was there and hoped for the best. If our father could see you now, Robb.”

Robb lets out a choked – sob? moan? – at that, and Jon shuts him up by shoving two fingers deep in his throat, thrusting violently against Robb's thigh as he listens to his brother gag. “Suck them, Stark, or I'll fuck you dry.”

Robb really does moan then, and sucks Snow's fingers as lewdly as any whore Theon's ever seen. _But Snow doesn't mean it,_ Theon tells himself, his own nightshirt pushed up so he can jerk his cock, which he doesn't want to think about but luckily he doesn't have to, because no-one is even looking at him, which he knows he should be glad for. _Robb's a slut, and Snow's figured out what sluts like, but he's not really going to hurt his brother._ Theon's had girls like that, who wanted to be treated so roughly, and he wouldn't refuse to slap them around a bit but it wasn't worth the trouble of pushing too far. And those girls were hedge knights' daughters at best; there's no way Snow is going to risk breaking the Heir to Winterfell himself. Besides, Snow, even if he is a sullen prick, is _good –_ better than Theon likes to admit. _Everything's going to be fine. Snow won't push too far. Robb trusts him. I trust him._

“I did bring a salve,” says Ramsay, because as much fun as it would be to watch Snow fuck Stark bloody until the latter passed out in a pool of his own mess, having Robb like it is sort of the point. He has to _focus_. Still, a smirk comes to his lips, and he can't keep back his next jibe: “unless you think my lord father left him so wet you need not bother?”

Jon growls at that, and when someone throws a glass pot so it lands by his side among the furs, he is sorely tempted to knock it onto the floor so it shatters in a thousand pieces. But he doesn't. _If I really hurt him, Lady Catelyn will have my head._ So he pulls his two fingers out of Robb's mouth with a pop and coats them in the clear white liquid. And Robb never protests, not for a second, only pants and folds his hands beneath his knees so he can display his hole to Jon more fully. _He deserves everything he gets._

Robb has to bite back a scream as Jon's fingers tear painfully into him, and oh _gods_ , Jon isn't as careful as Lord Bolton was, he's rough and clumsy and Robb doesn't know if that's just inexperience or if he just doesn't care, or maybe he wants it to hurt, maybe he wants to punish Robb for being such a slut, but the pain itself only makes Robb's prick throb harder. He wants to touch himself so much, but in this state he doubts Jon would stand for that. _He might have to tie me up to stop me,_ he thinks with a shiver of fear and lust. He feels like he's gone mad, he feels like they all have, like they've cracked through an iced lake and plunged into the deathly waters below, to some level of the seven hells where nothing matters but his lust, but his need to have more, more men, more cock, more seed, to be used and abused and put in his place, to be utterly ruined.

Snow adds a third finger and Robb screams loud enough for all the gods to hear, the Old and the New and the Drowned God himself. “Fuck, Stark, don't wake the whole castle,” Theon chides him, because bloody hell, the scandal if this got about, Lord Stark would definitely have his head, but Robb isn't listening to him. No-one is. But Ramsay is looking at him, and he shouldn't be, his eyes should be on Dom, he should be making sure everything's going according to plan but instead he's staring at the bloody hostage. He doesn't belong here, this is a matter for the lordlings of the North and their bastard brothers, not some foreigner they've dragged along. _I'm the one who wrote him a note,_ Ramsay remembers, but he shakes the thought away. Greyjoy just looks so sad being ignored, and Ramsay smirks imagining the attention he could pay the boy. _He'd look even sadder then._

Jon doesn't look at Robb before he pushes in, afraid if he does he'll falter, he'll weaken, he'll be sick with himself and where would they go from there? _He wants me to do it. He wants me to play the bastard._ So Jon listens to his brother yelp and feels him claw at his shoulders, feels him clench so hard around his prick he has to close his eyes and dig his nails into his palms to keep from spilling, but Jon Snow does not look his brother in the eye – those river-blue eyes, those Tully eyes. “Desperate whore,” he whispers in Robb's ear, as Robb moans and spreads his legs ever wider. “On your back for your bastard brother's cock, letting three other men watch. You'd let anyone have you, wouldn't you, and anywhere? Would you let me fuck you in the middle of the Great Hall, in front of all our father's bannermen, in front of our lord father, in front of your lady mother?”

“Yes!” Robb cries, thrusting himself up to meet Jon's hips only faster and harder at the thought of it, unable to keep the words back. But then Jon speaks as he sets a vicious pace, one that would make Robb scream in pain if it wasn't so good, and Robb wants to sob when he hears the disbelief, the _contempt_ in Jon's voice. _He hates me_.

“Gods, you'd not just let me do it, you'd _like_ it,” Jon whispers as Robb rubs himself only harder against Jon's belly at those words, staining his nightshirt. “You're mad. Is that really what you want Stark, me to fuck your pretty arse where your lady mother can see, where she'll realise what a whore you are?” _Do you want me to get my cock wet in her cunny before I put it in you?_ he almost asks, but he forces that fantasy away. Lady Stark has not debased herself like her son has, and Jon has no right to drag her into this filth. He must have some sort of honour. So instead, he takes that extra fury and aims it all back at Robb, spitting once more in his brother's face. “You _disgust_ me.”

Robb wails aloud, the words ringing in his ear as Jon hammers at him like a bent nail. _I disgust him, I disgust myself, I am disgusting; nobody wants me, nobody loves me, I'm only a hole to fuck..._ his thoughts harden his prick even as they shatter his heart. He wants to cling to Jon's shoulders again, to feel the warmth of flesh that isn't a cock, but before he can he feels two hands take ahold of his wrist and pin him to the bed. He looks up, puzzled, and sees the Bolton bastard smirking wickedly above him.

“Now now Snow, don't be harsh,” he says with a mocking pout, “he just can't help himself, can he? It feels so good...” Ramsay trails off as his eyes trail away from Robb, and Robb doesn't know what he's looking at because he has to wrench his eyes shut, Jon's shifted angle oh so slightly and he's hitting _something_ deep in Robb, and the pleasure is too much to bear, it's almost as bad as the shame. “Poor lordling slut. He'll need this all the time now. He just can't go without cock... really, this is a mercy, what you're doing for him.”

Domeric gasps softly as he squirms beneath the sheets, unable to break from Ramsay's gaze. He knows what Ramsay wants. He knows what Ramsay wants him to want. And gods be good, he _does_. Robb is sobbing and wailing as one man pins him down, as another, as his own brother fucks him like a whore and snarls words so cruel you wouldn't say them to a whore, it looks like all but a rape, and yet Robb _loves it_. He's moaning and pleading and begging for more, and he looks in so much pain but Domeric envies him. He wants to be on his back with his bastard brother's cock in him – Robb's brother? His brother? Both? He doesn't know.

But he knows he can't, he won't give in, he doesn't trust Ramsay, and what Robb Stark does with his body is his own business but Domeric is Heir to the Dreadfort, he would not dishonour himself... he wouldn't... but neither would Robb...

“I'm not doing it for him,” Robb hears Jon spit, and he winces even as he moans in pleasure. _No, it's not for me, I'm a bad slut, I don't deserve pleasure, I only deserve being used, it's just a shame I'm sick enough that gets me off..._ some part of him still realises all that's absurd, that he needs to take a break and collect his senses and _talk_ to Jon before he can make such a claim, but that part of him is buried deep beneath the part that just wants to cry and scream and _come_. “Fuck him,” Jon carries on, and he doesn't notice the pun until Ramsay and Theon both start giggling at it, like children. Theon is still here. Jon is suddenly inexplicably angry at him. _Then why am I doing this?_ he thinks. _He's your friend. Why haven't you stopped me?_

“Everyone acts like he's so perfect,” Jon sneers, forcing himself not to think of such things, for fear he'll find his heart again beneath his prick. “His fucking lady mother, always carrying on like if I take a sip from his wine I'll ruin him forever. Well fuck her. I didn't ruin him, I was good, and he went off and ruined himself. He was _born_ a whore. I'd like to see her fucking face now.”

“That's it Snow, let it all out,” whispers Ramsay, grinning. _See, he's just like me,_ he gloats. _He hates him. He loves him too, but he hates him. That's what bastards do._ “Show him what highborn sluts are good for.”

Robb is whining again. “Jon – Mother – Jon–”

“Shut up!” Jon shouts at him, and then he sees her, fucked senseless and too broken to stop him doing whatever he wants with her firstborn, that same awful image that Ramsay Snow helped him paint. “She can't help you now.”

And then he comes.

Robb wails again as he feels Jon's seed flooding him, staining him. _Mother, Mother, forgive me,_ he chants in his own mind, unsure if he speaks to the woman herself or to one of her gods. He stares up at Jon, slate grey eyes wrenched shut in pleasure. Father's eyes. His brother. Robb whimpers softly. _I am broken,_ he thinks. _I am broken, and I have broken him too._

Jon lets out a shuddering sigh as his orgasm finishes, finally opening his eyes to look once more at Robb, lying there with his face marked by tears and Jon's spit. As his prick softens his heart does also, and then he feels sick again. _My brother_ , he thinks. _Oh gods, how could I? How could I do that to him?_ “Robb, I–” he starts to stutter, but he cuts himself off because what can he say? _The things I said, the things I did, the way I treated him. How can I take that back?_

Robb moans, squirming against Jon's fading length, his own prick pitifully hard and neglected. “Jon,” he whispers, pleading for something, though he doesn't know which god would know what, and then Jon pulls out of him so fast Robb fears he might have tore his insides out. He chokes back a sob. _He's done with me. He does not want me anymore. Who could?_

Jon is staring as he crawls his way back across the bed, watches Robb just lie there limp, his prick still hard and red against his belly. It would be so easy to touch him again, to finish him off, to lean over and kiss and suck at him 'til he spilled, to apologise that way. But Jon can't make himself do it. He does not trust himself. He thinks he might bite Robb's cock right off. _Let someone else take care of him. Let Greyjoy do it. Someone who won't hurt him._ Robb just looks broken, and Jon feels broken, and he knows the two of them, together, are. They were brothers. But not anymore, Jon has broken that bond, forever, ruined and soiled it. _I will never be his brother. I will only ever be the bastard. That's all I deserve. Lady Stark was right about me all along._

“Don't stop,” Stark whispers, and the look of bewilderment on Snow's face is amusing but Ramsay quickly grabs the little lord by the hair and flips him over, before he and the bastard can spoil everything. Stark gasps, surprised, but he doesn't resist, of course he doesn't. Whore.

“There we go,” he coos as he rubs his thumb along Robb's bitten and swollen bottom lip, watching as the boy's whole face twitches as if he can barely resist the urge to take it in and suck it. “Come now, m'lord, don't pretend you didn't like that. Don't tell me you didn't _love_ having your bastard brother's cock shoved all the way up your arse.” Robb sobs again and turns his head in shame, but that's alright, Ramsay's not looking at him anyway. He's looking at Domeric. When he pushes his thumb into Robb's mouth the little lord can't resist anymore, he bobs his head and services it so enthusiastically you'd think it was a real cock. “And now you want more. 'Course you do. I saw you with my father, you know, so _greedy_.” _Greedy fucking whore, you keep your hands off him, you have your brothers to play with he's not yours._ “I bet you've always been a right tease, strutting about your castle like you own it–”

“Well he will do one day,” interrupts Greyjoy, and Ramsay turns to glare at him. _Mouthy cunt. Let's see if he's so smart without a tongue._ But he has to focus, so he ignores it.

“–begging to be put in your place, aren't you? Well alright then. You've been a selfish whore, thinking only about getting yourself fucked, so let's try something else.” He pulls his thumb away and chuckles at how Robb unwittingly chases after it with his mouth, but the boy's soothed when Ramsay takes his prick in hand and offers it up to his lips. Gods, he's practically fucking drooling. “Now you suck my cock like I've paid you for it, and then maybe then we'll see about putting another one in that whore arse of yours, hmm?”

“How many do you have?” Theon chimes in, but he's still being ignored, and the knot of jealousy is starting to twist and tangle in his chest, making him feel like he can't breathe. He watches as Robb opens wide and takes it whole, moans like a slut as Ramsay grabs his head with both hands and forces him down until he gags, rutting into the furs beneath him. _Lot to throw at someone you barely know,_ he thinks, but Robb _likes_ it and that's why they're doing all this, Snow would never have acted like he did if he didn't know Robb liked it, and Ramsay must know he likes it to, must be a bastard thing, and Robb has loved everything that's happened to him this night. Theon's sure he's done worse to girls he's only just met. Anger suddenly brims in his chest. _I'm an Ironborn warrior, I'm better than those bastards. If what Robb wants is a ravishing, why would he ask anyone else?_

Theon decides he's sick of being ignored.

He makes his way over to the bed, where Snow turns to look at him with a face as sullen and miserable as ever. He rolls his eyes and slaps the bastard on the shoulder. “Oh don't look like that Snow. You had a go, be patient. You can at least wait until you're hard again,” he says nodding to Jon's prick, which is definitely perking up at the sight of Robb being throatfucked by the Bolton bastard, but it's not quite there yet. “Rest of us deserve our shot.”

Jon wants to protest, wants to say, _no, you're his friend, you're meant to help him,_ but as Theon crawls away and over to Robb the words stick in his throat. What right has he to say that? Robb is moaning Bolton fucks his face hard, harder than Jon fucked his arse even, and Theon just _laughs_ at it, like it's all some jape to him, like they're not ruining the boy they've both sworn is like a brother to them forever. _Traitor,_ thinks Jon, furious at both Theon and himself. _Lord Stark should have both our heads._

Robb is gagging, choking, he can't breathe and he's terrified of what Ramsay might do if Robb is sick on his cock, but he cannot stop, he thinks as he grinds his cock shamelessly into the furs beneath him, moaning as Ramsay grasps his hair like reigns on a horse and pulls him in deep over his length, releasing salty fluid straight down the back of his stop. Ramsay won't let him stop, he knows that, but even if he would Robb wouldn't want him to, he thinks with a flood of shame – the shame and the pleasure both are too much to bear, but he knows if they stop there would be no pleasure, only the shame, and he doesn't think he'd survive that. He'd drop dead from his own sheer worthlessness. He might well do that once they're finished, so he has to make this last as long as possible, for these may be his last few moments left.

A slap comes to his arse, hard, and Robb gasps but it's hard to tell with how much he's gagging and spluttering. “That's it Robb, good little cocksucker,” he hears Theon laughing at him, _he thinks I'm disgusting too, but at least he's not so angry with me for it,_ and then Theon slaps him again, harder, and Robb lets out a whine of pain. “Have you been practicing, little lord?” Theon asks, grin on his face so he knows he's not angry, not jealous, he doesn't care if Robb's sucked off half of Winterfell. “Have you been servicing your father's guards behind closed doors, just like a camp follower you naughty little lordling, and not been offering us our fair share?”

Ramsay takes a firm hold of Robb's head and fucks his throat even harder so he can't shake his head, can't go _no, no I never,_ whether or not it's true ( _which it probably is,_ he tells himself). “Eh, he's not that good,” he comments idly, listening to Robb whine in humiliation. _See, he's not even a good whore. Father likes me more. Sometimes he even finishes me off._ “Bit sloppy.”

Greyjoy grins at him. “You're too picky, Snow. Bastards ought to be grateful for what they get. Besides, I don't mind 'em sloppy.” _Is that right,_ thinks Ramsay bitterly, and then he's imagining Greyjoy _sloppy_ , covered in filth and shit and piss and blood and cum and anything else Ramsay wants to cover him in, all the while sobbing _no, I'm sorry, that's not what I meant, please don't hurt me_ and it's only then that he realises where Theon is sitting, right behind Robb and blocking off Ramsay's view of Domeric, and if he can't see Domeric that means Domeric can't see him, and Ramsay needs to tell Greyjoy to get the fuck out of the way before he ruins everything, but somehow he can't. The words stick in his throat. Shit.

"Hey Stark, you've been spreading your legs for every man in the castle," _and how much did you enjoy it_ _?_ Theon wonders, but no, he won't let himself wonder that, "so why not me?"

Robb holds his breath. _H_ _e's right,_ he thinks. He's had Lord Bolton and his bastard and his own fucking brother, so who would he refuse? And Theon, he's always wanted Theon. He moans and lets his legs spread wide ad Ramsay Snow pushes his cock so far down his throat that everything is starting to go black.

The way Snow is fucking his face, it's a small miracle Robb can think to do anything, and yet his thighs open as if there's nothing he'd like more than another cock in his arse. _How can he be so shameless?_ he wonders, imaging the look on Lord Stark's face if he knew what his son and heir was doing – Lord Stark, he's imagining Lord Stark – but maybe Robb isn't shameless, maybe just it's getting lost beneath the way he's gagging on the Bolton bastard's cock. Theon takes ahold of his arse with two hands and spreads his cheeks wide, seeing that pretty little hole all pink and wet. _Slut_ , thinks Theon, _ready for any man to use. Gods, how good must that make him feel?_ When he pushes two fingers against Robb, rubbing his hole idly, a drop of Jon's seed drips out of him and onto Theon's fingers. _That's disgusting,_ he tells himself, and yet the sight goes straight to his cock. "Wet little cunt," he chuckles.

 _Wet and ready, though I might pass out before you get it inside me,_ he thinks, eyes watering as Ramsay hammers the back of his mouth again and again and again, and then slaps his jaw without even bothering to pull himself out. “Oi, you. Eyes open. Look at me.” Robb _does_ have his eyes open, though he's mostly trying to stare into the furs, to forget about what's happening to him when he can still feel it, and it's not working, and his vision is too blurry to see much of anything anyway. But obediently he casts his eyes up, and sees those icy eyes of the bastard dancing, so much like his father's except his father never looked that happy, and Robb shivers in fear and longing. _I am being fucked by a monster._

“Look at you. Dripping with come. Utterly shameless.” Theon blinks, because Ramsay should be talking to Robb but he isn't, he's looking straight at Theon, and that's not fair, _I haven't done anything wrong, I'm not shameless, how could I be?_ and Ramsay should be talking to Domeric, but he can't even see Domeric and so he really has no idea who he's talking to anymore and that makes him even angrier. _It's all the Greyjoy cunt's fault._ “Well go on then, stick your dick in him. Are you going make him wait all day?”

Theon makes an irritated noise. “Bossy, aren't you?” he asks, ignoring how Snow's words rush straight to his cock. He pushes two fingers in Robb and listens to him give a choked moan around Ramsay's prick. “I'm getting there.” But Ramsay huffs in irritation and then Theon, not at all thinking straight, suddenly darts down and closes his mouth over Robb's wet and stretched hole instead.

 _What am I doing?_ he thinks in a panic as Robb gasps and thrusts up toward him, but this is alright, he's done this to a thousand girls to get them wet and willing – even if Robb was already plenty both those things. _But none of them were full of another man's come,_ Theon can't stop himself thinking, and seven hells he can _taste_ Snow, Jon Snow, fuck there are two of them now, and he should pull away in disgust but instead he pushes his tongue straight through the ring of muscle as he ruts into the furs beneath him, almost as if he's chasing it, and he knows Snow is watching, _Jon is watching_ , and he's sitting there silent and stunned. _What are you doing Greyjoy?_ he thinks as he watches Bolton's bastard grin wider, baring his teeth like a feral dog. _It's not safe, for you or for him,_ but Jon knows he can't intervene, not after what he did.

At least Robb seems to be enjoying Theon's mouth, reaching behind himself with a spare hand to grab at Theon's hair and push him down further, but that's alright, Theon tells himself, girls do that to him do, and he always just chuckles at them for being so desperate. Jon suspects Robb enjoyed what he did to him to, but that's not the point, because Jon knows when he did it he didn't _care_ if Robb enjoyed it – he cared about taking what he wanted, and punishing Robb for making him feel for so many years like he couldn't have what he wanted. He wouldn't have stopped if Robb had begged him not to for their father's sakes or their brothers and sisters' or the sakes of the old gods themselves, but now Robb is begging for more, as best he can when he's being choked on Ramsay's cock, so who is Jon to deny him? No-one, only a bastard, not worthy to touch the little lord.

Is that what he'd tell Father? _I'm sorry, my lord, but I couldn't say no to him._ That would be a lie. _I'm sorry, my lord, but he couldn't say no to me._

Stark's eyes are starting to glaze over and he knows that if the boy really does pass out Domeric will just panic and forget about any temptation, he's craven like that, so Ramsay finally lets him up for air. Little lordling doesn't exactly seem grateful, simply gasps roughly as the drool slips all over his chin and he makes no motion to brush it away, too busy with Greyjoy's mouth lapping up another man's come, the greedy fucking whore. “Theon,” he moans and that only annoys Ramsay further, _he didn't moan my name,_ although with the way he was fucking Stark's throat he probably couldn't, but still Ramsay feels no inclination to be fair. “Theon, please – your cock – fuck me, I want–”

Theon makes himself push back up, drawing away from the taste of Jon's seed because right, that's what he came here for. He chuckles as he crawls along the bed on his knees, taking himself in hand and pressing himself against Robb. “Is that right, Stark? Is that what you want, my cock?” Robb moans as he sticks his arse up, his well-stretched hole fluttering slightly, like it's trying to reach out for Theon's length and grasp it. “Or any cock at all?” A wave of jealousy hits him. “You'd have let anyone in the castle fuck you.” Another, stranger lash of jealousy hits. “Lordling whore.”

 _You're a lordling too,_ Robb almost tells him but he doesn't because then Theon pushes in and oh _gods_ , he can't even think, can't do anything but let out a long, pathetic whine as Theon bottoms out inside him, fills him up, balls resting against his arse as Theon takes a second to get his breath back. “You're so _big_ ,” Robb moans, too overwhelmed to worry about what he sounds like – a shameless whore, and a rather unimaginative one at that.

Theon chuckles in his ear, and takes the compliment and files it away in his heart, _see, they tell me that even when I don't pay them, so fuck you Snow._ Snow is watching as Theon laughs, but not like Ramsay did, not like Jon did, not cruelly – Theon laughs at Robb like they're friends. Because you can still be friends with a man after you fuck him, but brothers, never. “What, did you think I was lying to you Stark?” he asks, and Robb chuckles in return.

“Not lying, but... exaggerating maybe,” he says, and for a little while it's like everything is fine, like he hasn't ruined everything by giving into his filthy needs, because if he and Theon can still jape and laugh together even while they fuck maybe things have not changed so much? But deep in his heart, he knows Theon isn't laughing with him, will never laugh with him again – only ever at him. Then Ramsay slaps his face again, and Theon flinches because whatever he and Robb just had is broken now, and Ramsay is annoyed, because Greyjoy distracted him from Dom and now he's distracting Robb from him, the greedy, self-obsessed cunt, making Stark sigh like a whore over how big his cock is, and cutting it off would be too good for him.

“Okay, you've had enough air,” he snaps, taking his anger out on the nearest hole, which is all Stark is really, not good enough for Father, “open up, whore.”

And Robb does it, because of course he does it, and Jon is watching with his hand reluctantly closing around his cock, and he feels sick as sin with himself for it, but he can't help it, he gets off on this, on seeing his brother so debased. Ramsay isn't any gentler this time, if anything he's even rougher, pulling at Robb's hair like he wants to tear it out, _nothing like Dom's, nothing like mine, see Father wouldn't want him he was just there,_ and Theon matches his pace, because he has to, he has to be just as rough as Ramsay, just as bad as Ramsay, he has to be what Robb wants.

Robb is moaning, used from both ends and unable to speak, unable to move, unable to do anything but lie there and take it. It's everything he's ever dreamed of and it feels so good, so good he can almost forget it's destroying him, but oh it's such a way to go. Theon watches as his prick pushes in and out of Robb's little hole, still so tight for something twice-used today (and the gods only know how many times used total), wrecking it, huge and red and angry, ready to spill his seed and stain the boy's inside. _Yes, yes, stain him._ Theon wants to mark Robb, wants to make him remember who did this to him, even if he knows he wasn't the first and he probably won't be the last.

But it's not enough, thinks Ramsay as he watches Theon try and fuck Robb as hard as he does, as if that will fool anyone, because Lord Stark is _such_ a whore – Ramsay has Father, and he wants Dom, but surely two men can't be enough for this one? Stark's already had two men, and he's still wanting. So Ramsay smirks again. “Put your fingers in him, Greyjoy,” he says, and Theon blinks up at him, confused. _But I'm already inside him, and he's taking it just fine, not that you'd care if he wasn't. Still: why?_ “With your cock,” Ramsay clarifies. “Go on, stretch him wide. See what the slut can take.”

Robb whines and moves even faster between their two bodies, not sure if he's pushing himself or being pulled. _Gods, yes. Gods, no. Gods–_ he wants that, two cocks in his sore wet well-used hole, wrecking him utterly. He's always wanted that. But he knows he's not as used as he wants to be, not as used as they must think he is, and what if they really do tear him apart? He's scared. _But am I scared enough to say no?_

Theon hesitates, because the thought of it is incredible – Robb clenching tight and begging as he takes more and more and more – incredible enough he doesn't believe it, because Robb wouldn't allow them that, would he? _He's allowed a lot of things you thought he never would_ , he thinks, with another dull flush of anger. Still, what if Theon fucks it up? What if he really does hurt him? _Lord Stark would have my head._

This is taking too long, so Ramsay pushes Stark up off his dick and slaps him again, which only makes the fucking pervert moan. “Aww, it seems our Lord Greyjoy has come over all womanly. He's _worried_ about you.” And his voice is so sickeningly sweet that Theon wants to shove his whole fist into Robb's arse just to prove him wrong – but he just about manages to catch himself, realises how stupid that would be. “He doesn't think you can take it. But I'd say I know you better.” And Theon feels a little ill then, because he always thought he knew Robb so well, but he never in a thousand years thought Robb would ever do this. So who does he know then? “Tell me, m'lord, have you done this before? Have you had two men shove their cocks in your arse because one wasn't enough, because you're such a fucking whore?”

Stark whines and shakes his head, and Ramsay's nostrils flare in anger. _But he must have,_ he tells himself, _he must have done all that. His hole must be too loose for Father to bother with again._ Theon is just in the middle of sighing in relief when he hears words start to spill from Robb's mouth, “No, I never,” Robb spits up along with slaver and seed, _I never even had one before today,_ but he knows none of them would believe that with all he's done. Ramsay raises his eyebrows as if he doesn't believe it, and then Robb can't stop himself spitting up truth also: “n-not with other men, but with candles, and my fingers, I–” and he burns a deep red, because really isn't that worse? He can't even pretend he did it all to please someone else.

Theon chuckles, a knot within him loosening. _He did it to himself,_ he thinks, and he can just imagine it, lying on his back with his knees up in the air, greedy and desperate and yet having to work himself open slow and patient, fucking himself with wet fingers and then filling himself up, but never enough, having to add more and more to make it good enough, dreaming of some other man to do the work for him, of other men... He should say something about it, tease little lord Robb, but before he can Ramsay is speaking again: “Oh, I see,” he grins, and Stark's eyes fall down to the furs in humiliation. Ramsay wishes he could see Dom now, but he can only see dark hair bouncing if he sticks his neck up painfully to look above Greyjoy and – surely he has to be touching himself by now? He might be a little lord but he's not made of stone. “Are you the sort of whore who has to fuck himself if no-one else will?” _Well are you, big brother?_ and he can just imagine that, Domeric acting all good and proper by day and making a whore of himself at night, the fucking tease, but then again he's come into Dom's rooms in the middle of the night a thousand times and never caught him in the middle of anything so untoward. _But he's clever, my big brother; he might have seen me coming._

Robb nods shamefully and Jon watches from afar, torn. _You'll hurt him,_ part of him wants to say because the gods only know no-one else is going to, especially not Robb himself, but will they? _He's not unlearned, after all. He took you easily enough. And he's been practicing on himself._ That anger from before is back as he imagines what Robb's been doing, fucking himself senseless and then going out and acting like he never would, lying to them all, and an early drop of seed spurts from his cock. And then he's afraid. _Will I get that angry every time I want to come?_

Slowly, hesitantly, he turns his head toward the Bolton heir – he doesn't know why, he's never even spoken to the man, but as he pathetically tries to catch his eye he realises, he's looking for reassurance. He always looks to Robb for reassurance, when Lady Stark is glowering or when Sansa is standoffish or even Father seems ashamed of him – it's always Robb who makes him feel like he is wanted, he is safe, he is good. _And now he knows exactly how good I am._ Jon knows Robb can never give that assurance again, not after what he's done, no matter how much Robb wanted it – and he cannot give him that assurance now, for Jon can barely see him swamped between Greyjoy and Snow's bodies.

But Domeric can't either, and of course he can't, Jon can't simply trade one highborn boy for another and think it's all the same – Bolton is too preoccupied with the scene in front of him to even notice Jon, his hand moving recklessly beneath the furs even as his face is a mask of shame and fear. Well, Jon should be relieved to know he is not the only one who feels that way. _And a highborn lord at that._

“Well go on, Greyjoy,” Ramsay whispers, and he tries not to laugh out loud as the boy's eyes snap straight to him because _gods_ , could he be more obvious? He's buried balls-deep in a whore's arse and yet there's nothing he wants more than orders. _I'll give him orders alright, orders he won't be so eager to follow, but if he says no..._ Ramsay curses himself in his head. _But not_ _ **yet**_ **.** He's not finished.

Theon does what he's told, but not because he's told, but because Robb wants it, he knows Robb wants it, and he's not going to deny him for no good reason. Gently he swipes his fingers around the wet rim, listening to Robb gasp and whimper: “please.” _Shameless._

It hurts once Theon's fingers finally push inside, it always does, and Robb makes a choked noise almost hoping Theon will say something to him, hush and soothe him and tell him it'll feel better soon, but he doesn't bother. _Why would he bother, I know it'll feel better soon, and he knows I know, he knows I'll never refuse._ And it does feel good once Theon's fingers push all the way in, crooking back and forth against his prick and Robb moans desperately, feeling so full and arching back for more, needy and pathetic, and Snow hasn't put his cock back in his mouth and Robb wonders.

“Another, Greyjoy. No need to be patient,” says Ramsay, and Theon wants to ask _are you sure?_ but when he looks into those blue eyes he finds himself helpless to do anything but obey. _Robb will be fine,_ he tells himself as he adds a third finger and Robb gasps in pain, or pleasure, really it's hard to tell the two apart so Theon will assume it's the latter. He feels _good_ like this, so fucking tight, and Theon has to bite his lip to keep from spilling especially when he imagines it's not his own fingers, it's another man, another cock pressed against his own, rutting against him in Robb's hole and reaching round to squeeze and slap his arse to urge him on, wait no that's not right, but then he's distracted from the whole thing by another voice:

“You'll hurt him.”

 _Fucking Snow,_ Theon thinks automatically before he remembers that there are two of them now, but it's fucking Jon this time, of course it is, moody little shit carrying on like he's better than Theon again as if they didn't all just see the way he likes to fuck. _But he loves it,_ he wants to protest as Robb moans and clenches around his fingers, because Robb has to love it, if he didn't love it Theon wouldn't do it, because Robb is all he has, and Snow always takes shit like this too seriously.

“And that's your job?” asks Snow, and Jon's eyes fall to the furs in shame because the bastard is right, after what he did he has no right to talk, but someone must. Ramsay laughs. “Come now, if you want another go, we can all share. The whore's been dreaming of two dicks in his arse.” And he ruffles Stark's hair almost fondly, the way he would Domeric's, and Stark seems as embarrassed by it as Dom would be too. _Embarrassed as he'd be by all this?_ “Don't you want to give your big brother something he's never had before?”

 _I want my brother not to hate me,_ thinks Jon, still staring into the furs, but then he hears Robb start to plead: “Jon – Jon, please – I want it–” _I want you,_ he wants to say, _I want you to want me,_ and he knows Jon could never want him for anything else now, so at least he can want him for his body; if his own brother will view him as nothing but a whore then at least let him view him as a good whore, and Robb knows he'll let himself be torn in two for that.

 _But how can you?_ Jon wonders, though he knows it's not his place to wonder such things. _Is that why you were always good to me, did you want to keep me around to be a bastard to you?_ the anger in him is back, and that's frightening, he doesn't think he'll be able to control it, he should say no, but he _can't_ say no – because Robb wants it, and Jon knows he has to make it up to him, so how could he refuse? “...if that's what you'd like.”

 _He thinks I'm disgusting,_ Robb thinks again, but before he can truly think it through Ramsay is laughing again. “Oh don't look so glum, Snow. He probably doesn't have the pox. Go on, Greyjoy, roll him over, make some space.” Theon groans, reluctant to leave Robb's tight heat and yet he does it without question, pulling his fingers and then his prick away and wincing at how desperately Robb whines at the sudden emptiness. _How much can he possibly need it?_

Before he knows it he's lying on his back and Robb is on top of him, but he's sitting straight and not facing Theon, not even looking over his shoulder as he slides back down over his cock. That bothers him a little, but he won't complain, he's not some mewling girl who whines when men find him to ugly to fuck face-to-face. Not that any man would, not that the question would ever come up. He moans as Robb clenches tight around him again, but not too tight, clearly he's trying to relax – he does need to. _It'll be so tight with Snow in there too,_ and he can't even see Snow, the first Snow, all but a few black curls obscured by the shape of Robb's body, but he can imagine him, all moody and sullen and dark-eyed and... he moans and takes a firm hold of Robb's hips, pushes him down until he covers all of Theon's length. “That's it, slut,” he whispers, “we'll fill you right up.”

 _He's finally fucking moved,_ Ramsay thinks gladly, and even though Stark and his bastard brother are quickly getting in the way also he can just see Domeric – and oh, what he sees. His eyes are wide and terrified, his body deathly still, except for one part, his hand fisting his cock frantically beneath the sheets. Ramsay could sing in triumph. _He wants it,_ he thinks, _he wants to be a whore. He'll let me make him one, I know it._

When Snow aligns himself with his brother's arse he blocks off the view of Dom, which is annoying, but Ramsay tells himself it doesn't matter. He's proven his point, and he knows what Dom will be doing. _I know him._ Jon hesitates before he pushes in, still disbelieving Robb could possibly want him, but Robb is staring at him with his big blue eyes – just like his mothers. Jon can't bear to look anymore, and so he tucks his head over Robb's shoulder. He wants to say something, like _I'm sorry_ or _I won't hurt you,_ but nothing sounds right, there are too many answers, like _no you're not, you loved it_ or _you already did_ , so instead he just silently pushes inside.

Robb gasps and throws his head back as Jon splits him wide. _I'm just a hole to him,_ he thinks, and tears spring to his eyes but it hurts enough that that probably would have happened anyway. It takes Jon a few goes to really breech the muscle, Robb's own body protesting his whorishness because he knows it was not meant for this, he was not born for this, but it's too late now, he's already ruined. And it feels _good_ when Jon's cock gets inside, Theon moans and digs his fingers into Robb's hips as he tightens around them both, and it would be nice if one of them would fucking look at him but that's not why Theon's here, he's just looking for a good hole to fuck, nothing else.

Snow and Stark are fucking _embracing_ as they fuck, and Ramsay pouts because that's not what he wanted, he wanted the bastard to use his highborn brother like a worthless slut, like he did before, and for the little lord to love every second of it. And they're still blocking his view. Ramsay is incensed enough he takes ahold of Stark's hair and yanks again, listening to him gasp and watching a few drops of seed spurt from his prick onto Snow's nightshirt, the shameless fucking whore. “You. Lie down.”

Luckily, Stark is desperate enough he obeys instruction without question, and Snow follows him. Theon gasps as the weight of them both comes down on him, knocking the breath out of his lungs, but strangely that only makes him harder and he starts thrusting weakly up into Robb's arse, too weighed down to get much leverage, and he remembers what Snow, the other Snow did to him, how he pinned him against the wall and almost choked the life out of him and left him with a very confusing hard-on. Theon curses himself. _Fuck, don't remember that. Come on, you have the Heir to Winterfell on top of you, ready to ride two cocks like his favourite pony, why would you even think of that?_

He moans as Jon slowly starts to thrust in and out, starts to fuck him proper, and Theon does his best to return the movement but in many ways he's as much stuck taking it as Robb is. _No, no-one is taking it like me,_ he thinks, overwhelmed and ashamed and intoxicated, and it only worsens when Ramsay yanks his hair again, gentler this time, and Robb doesn't even ask he just opens wide. “Good slut,” Ramsay whispers, stroking his jaw almost fondly and Robb moans as the salty taste floods his mouth, not thrusting so deep this time, and Domeric is now alone watching it all, hidden beneath the furs for all the good it's doing him. He knows Ramsay knows, and he grins savagely as he fucks in and out of Robb Stark's mouth, and Domeric can't look away, as this boy, this lord, this heir just like him takes three cocks at once. _He wants me to want it. And gods help me, I do._ Ramsay is the least of them all, for even Jon Snow is their liege's bastard, and yet they're all under his spell, all doing what he wants. _Not me. I've not done anything yet. I'm just touching myself._ But it's a petty victory and one that cannot last, because he knows that if Ramsay said he was sick of Stark and ordered him to spread his legs, Domeric would crawl over there and do so in a second. And he knows Ramsay knows that too. It's only a matter of time.

Robb whines pitifully and he can't even see now, Ramsay keeping his face tilted up so everything is consumed by the cock he's swallowing, and Theon is groaning in his ear as Jon sets the pace, fucking him hard, and he wants this, he's always wanted this, and the more it happens the harder it is to remember why he shouldn't want this, it's just so much, too much and he wants more, Theon shudders and sighs as he tries to return Jon's movement but it's too hard, too much, he's just lying there filling Robb up and he hopes Robb appreciates that but he knows the bastards are both doing more for him, fucking his arse and fucking his mouth, making him into the whore he wants to be, and Theon can only gasp and try not to beg as Jon rubs against him and Robb squeezes him like a lemon, and Ramsay, Ramsay simply passes above him on his way to fucking Robb's throat, his balls almost brushing against Theon's brow, and Theon turns his face in embarassment. “Careful,” he snaps, glad no-one will see his blush, “Lord Stark might let you put those all over his face but I am not the same.”

Ramsay, who was in the middle of grinning across the bed at Domeric imagining how it would sound to hear his big brother fucking _beg_ for his cock, is roused to fury by having his attention torn away, because Greyjoy is such a needy pathetic slut. “Oh, is that right?!” he snarls, and suddenly Theon gasps in shock as there's a hand in his hair, yanking him up and Robb whines as Ramsay's cock almost slips out of his mouth, _no no you can't,_ he needs it, he needs it in every hole, he needs to be filled up utterly and have everything blocked out, because if he doesn't then he'll remember who he is and why he should never have done this and how disgusted with himself he is, and so he grasps pathetically at the cock with his hand and keeps suckling at the tip like he's trying to draw out poison.

“You're a fucking liar.” Theon whimpers as Ramsay tells him that and he has no idea what's happening, something's changed, this is the way Robb likes being treated not him, “don't think I didn't see you, taking every order I gave you, licking up as much come as you could get, how hard you were when I threw you against the wall and choked you.” Jon blinks, wondering _when the hell did that happen?_ but Theon seems to know what he's talking about, if the way his prick twitches inside Robb is any indication. This has gone wrong, because he knows Robb wants this even if he's not sure they should give it to him, but Theon – what does Theon want? “You want to be just like this one, a hole for any man who needs one,” _they have no loyalty, sluts like this,_ Ramsay thinks, remembering the look on Father's face as he almost boredly pushed in and out of his liege's son, and suddenly he's afraid, he thinks Father might think he's been disloyal for this. No, but this is different. This is nothing like what he lets Father do to him. _He doesn't care about me enough to mind if I stray anyway._ “You're not fooling anyone. You suck my balls like the whore you are, and don't you dare act like you're too good for me.”

 _But I am you fucking bastard, I'm a prince of the Iron Islands, how dare you speak to me like that,_ but Theon can't make the words come out of his mouth, and as soon as he spreads his lips Ramsay's balls are in there and he's moaning like a whore as he sucks them, moaning just like Robb with his mouth full of the bastard's cock, the North and the Iron Islands both worshipping this _nothing_ like he's a fucking god, _no no I can't,_ Theon thinks in a panic, but he can't make himself stop. It's all gone wrong, it's all wrong and Jon can't believe this, can't believe Theon would want this, still doesn't quite believe Robb would. _Gods, are all highborns like this?_ he thinks, and then he sees Lady Catelyn again, as highborn as anyone he knows and then he imagines having her like this, having her and her son and Theon all crowded around and worshipping his cock, and gods he envies Ramsay Snow, how he can just take what he wants from whoever he wants, but Jon's not like him – he's not good, not anymore, but he's not shameless. His prick goes wild at the fantasy, as much as Theon's does twitching and pulsing inside Robb, but Jon can't come thinking of that, thinking of her, he can't let himself, and so finally he looks back down at Robb.

But Robb is lost, eyes wedged shut and unable to feel anything but pleasure, unwilling to feel anything but pleasure, and he knows that something is happening above him and he should care, but he doesn't know how to, all he knows that there are three cocks in him and it feels so good and he wants them to come, he wants to be filled with seed like they're trying to breed him, and then suddenly he _is_ because Theon fucking wails as Ramsay thrusts furiously against his face, and then he spills his seed deep in Robb, his orgasm shuddering all through his body and Jon can't hold on then with Theon squirming like that against him, he releases and marks his brother once more, a wet mess seeping out of Robb's arse and staining all three of them. Jon feels exhausted as soon as the last seed trickles out of him, he just wants to lie there and sleep in his brother's arms, as much as he has no right to, and so he shouldn't be surprised when he's roughly shoved off and onto his back in the furs.

Robb is shoved away too, finding himself face down and arse up, come leaking down his thighs growing cold quickly, and he's painfully empty. “No, no, don't stop,” he whines to no-one in particular but it doesn't matter because he's coming back to himself now, and oh _gods_ , what he's done, most whores wouldn't do that, if his Mother knew, if his Father knew, if anyone knew. He's disgusting, he's disgusted them and now they've all moved on to find better holes to fuck. _I'm ruined. I'm not even good for this now._ Then he feels a hand in his hair and he sobs again, _yes you can fuck me if you like, anyone can fuck me if they like, I'll never say no now, why would I say no now?_ but this hand isn't rough like Ramsay's, it doesn't pull him up to demand he present his mouth to be used, it just stays there, petting him like a dog.

“On your knees, bitch,” and Theon is helpless but to obey, on all fours with his arse in the air, and he screams in pain when Ramsay shoves three well-slicked fingers _straight into him_ , gods it feels like he's about to tear in two, he can't take this, he doesn't know how to take this, but when he tries to protest _no stop you're hurting me_ it somehow twists into “yes, yes, _hurt me_.”

“You disgust me,” Ramsay spits as he pries Greyjoy's arse open, tight as a vice but that doesn't matter because even if he's never done anything, Ramsay knows he's wanted to a thousand times. _Bastard, lordling, hostage, I know them all. And knowledge is power._ Greyjoy is a slut in his mind, and it's the mind that makes you a slut, not the body, Ramsay has to believe that, and so he doesn't feel the slightest bit guilty as he thrusts in the boy whole like he would a whore, like a hound would a bitch, like Father does him.

Theon moans as he's taken so roughly he thinks he might split in two, but it feels good, having this bastard's prick tearing him open, using him, and gods, is this what the girls he fucks feel like, is this why they cry sometimes and blather in his ear about how they're not sluts, not really, they wouldn't do this except... Theon's always found them rather pathetic for it, but he desperately wants to do the same himself, except he can't even think of any excuse. _I want his cock in my arse because I want his cock in my arse. Because I'm a whore._ The crying though, he can manage, and his tears drip down his face and off his chin, onto the bedspread, and he can't even hide his head in his hands because then he'd fall down, and he is pathetic. He can only imagine Father's face if he knew what his last living son was doing, and gods, no, that's too much... and then someone's kneeling in front of him and _of fucking course, Snow,_ of course he wants to take advantage now Theon's been degraded to this state, but he can't even pretend he's too good for it, he's already opening his mouth when Jon hisses: “ _Careful_ , Ramsay.”

Robb is still sobbing, caught in his wretchedness, but eventually he comes to his sense enough to start to wonder who it is that's stroking his hair. He looks up and sees Domeric Bolton, watching him with a frown – perhaps he hoped it was Jon, or even Theon, that they would love him after all through all this, but he knows he was just being greedy. He struggles for words, and eventually the only ones he has are: “please don't tell my father.”

Domeric blinks in confusion. “Of course not.” _Have I ever even met your father?_ he almost asks, but then he realises that as heir to the second most powerful house in the North he will do, he must do, someday. Another sob makes its way free of Robb's throat, and Domeric's heart hurts for him. “Shh, shh, it's alright,” he says, although he knows it's not – _oh Ramsay, what have you done?_ he thinks as he watches the wreck of a boy his brother has left for him. Robb did want it, anyone could tell he wanted it, but Ramsay will never understand – he takes what he wants and damn the consequences, and has never been ashamed in his life. He doesn't know what it's like to hate yourself for wanting something.

Robb is trying to come back to reality, which is made more difficult when he realises he's still hard as a rock and starting to grind himself into the furs and he knows he could beg again for cock at any second, but when he turns his head to the men formerly using him he sees – it looks like Jon and Ramsay are sharing Theon and he wonders _why, that doesn't make sense, Theon's not like that, he's not depraved like me_ and Theon wonders _why, why would he want to help me, why doesn't he fucking hate me?_

“If you don't slow down, you'll tear him.”

“So what?” Ramsay snaps, lost in his fury. “He deserves it.”

For a moment, Jon is tempted, remembering everything Theon has ever said to him, every snide remark about his bastardy, every smirk and whisper about what having a whore's blood must make of him, and it would be so easy. To let Ramsay shred Theon to pieces, to let him ruin him utterly, and to let Theon let Ramsay do it, to love it even when he hated himself for it. He wouldn't even have to do anything, just sit there and watch and wank himself off, adding in his own hateful words when need be.

But then he hears Robb sob, laying used and discarded behind them, and Jon feels so guilty he can't even turn to look at Robb, and he's sure Robb doesn't want to look at him, at the brother who shattered his trust so utterly. He ruined Robb in a fit of spite and he can't do the same to Theon. He doesn't know if he'll ever really be better than the Bolton bastard but he _wants_ to be. So he hardens his gaze on Ramsay.

“Slow down,” he says, “or I'll tell your lord father.”

And Ramsay hesitates. _Be careful with the hostage, I won't have the Iron Islands incited to rebellion on my watch,_ Father did warn him, and while he can hardly be mad over Ramsay fucking about with the Stark heir after he did the exact same thing, but Greyjoy... _he cares more about his politics than he ever will about me._ And so Ramsay lets out a bitter, resigned sigh, and suddenly yanks Theon up onto his knees, displaying his body to the Stark bastard. “Well, what do you want to do with him?”

Jon opts to ignore him, instead cupping Theon's jaw gently and wiping away his tears with a thumb. “It's alright Theon,” he says, which he knows is a damn lie but it feels like he _must_ lie. “It'll be alright. Do you want him to fuck you?” he asks, and does his best not to smirk at how furiously Theon nods. “Alright. I won't stop him then.” And he smiles slightly. “Just let me help.”

And then he falls down onto his hands and knees.

Robb watches as Jon sucks Theon's cock while Ramsay fucks him, leaving him moaning and clawing for purchase, _I always thought they hated each other, but he would not do that for me._ Nothing makes sense to him anymore and Domeric sighs as he can't tear his eyes away, his stomach tightened in dread and need. _He wants me to want it, and I do._ He's lucky Ramsay is distracted, because it would be so easy to give in, to let his brother fuck him, to beg his brother to fuck him – but he knows with Ramsay, that would never be the end of it. He loves his brother, but he doesn't trust him. _Why would I?_

He wants it so much, but he cannot let Ramsay win. He wants...

He looks down at poor Robb Stark, still rubbing himself against the furs desperately, and he smiles a little to himself. He has an idea. “Robb,” he whispers, “do you want to come?”

Robb looks up at him, tears in his eyes, and nods. “Yes,” _but I don't deserve to, I'm a bad slut, I'm just to be used_ , but Domeric smiles at him.

“Alright. Roll over on your back.”

Robb does as he's told, his cock sticking up hard and leaking, and Domeric fumbles a little with the salve as he crawls above him but eventually he gets his fingers slicked enough. Robb blushes. “I'm not sure that's still–”

“Hush.” Domeric silences him with his clean hand, and then watches the boy's eyes go wide as he reaches behind himself and starts to finger himself open. _Oh_. It feels good, despite the cramp in his wrist, it stings with pain but before long he's rubbing messily and greedy inside him, finding all the spots to bring him pleasure and his cock pulses and leaks against his belly, and he could probably make himself come like this, but he made a promise. He pulls his fingers out.

“You're not going to–”

But then Domeric slides down over Robb's length and steals the words from him.

Robb gasps as he feels his hard and aching prick squeezed tight, impossibly tight, so tight it almost hurts and this isn't right, he doesn't deserve this, but he finds his hand winding through Snow's hair and pulling him closer anyway, and Jon struggles a little, gagging as Theon pushes a bit too far down his throat but he doesn't mind because even if Robb never lets Jon anywhere near him again, this, servicing Theon the way he should have serviced Robb, still feels like some sort of atonement.

 _What are you doing?!_ Ramsay wants to scream as he watches Jon Snow suck Theon Greyjoy's cock like a two-copper whore, _why would you, he doesn't deserve it, why would you let him_ degrade _you?_ But Snow is all but ignoring him, and when he does deign to gaze at Ramsay, there's fucking pity in his eyes. _How dare you? I saw what you did to your own brother. I see what you're doing right now. You're no better than me._ But then he watches the drool slip down Jon's chin, and he thinks of Father, the things Father does to him, and then he moans as he feels Ramsay thrust in deep and shudder all over as he spills his seed inside him, whispering “Daddy...” in his ear, and Theon doesn't understand that at all but he has no time to think about it because as soon as Ramsay's cock retreats Jon's fingers are there, rubbing and teasing at his rim and making him but not pushing in, his eyes dancing in amusement all the while. But it's not cruel, how Jon looks at him, even if it should be; he almost seems fond, almost _loving_. And that, more than anything, makes Theon come hot and hard into his mouth.

Robb has his eyes closed, moaning helplessly as Domeric slides up and down on his cock, all the while whispering sweet little words like _good boy, so good, so big_ at him and Robb wants to deny it, because he's bad, he's sick, he's wrong, he knows that, and yet it's hard to think it such complex terms as _good_ and _bad_ when the whole world is shrinking down to only _hot_ and _tight_ and _come_. Theon, as he drags himself out of the haze of his orgasm, gains the vague understanding that they are not the only ones fucking, but he's too far gone to make any sense of it. Jon's heart stings with bitter jealousy as he watches the Bolton lordling take his brother, but it makes perfect sense to him. _Someone should be good to him. Gods, Robb, I'm so sorry._

But Ramsay is furious, with them and with himself. _How did I not notice this?!_ he thinks hysterically, but he won't let it be his fault. _It was the Greyjoy cunt, he fucking distracted me,_ he thinks and tries to stab Greyjoy with his cock to punish him, but his cock is limp and useless now and slips right out when he tries. _No matter, I'll just use an actual knife; I'll beat him and burn him and break him all over..._ but he remembers what Father said, and he knows there's nothing he can do. He can only watch impotently as his brother, _his brother,_ fucks himself on Stark's cock like a twopenny slut, and Ramsay wants to wrench them apart but he knows it's too late, no matter what he does now, Stark has his brother's maidenhead.

 _But he's mine!_ he wants to scream, remembering everything he was going to do to Dom, everything he was going to make him beg for. _You greedy fucking whore, you stole my father and you stole my brother, and you don't need them! Who do you think you are?!_

Ramsay feels like he's going to burst, and no, he can't let this be how it is. He can't let himself have lost. And so as he recovers his wits, he smiles. Because he's right, Robb Stark is a whore, the most disgusting whore he's ever met, and fucking him is one thing – but who would be desperate enough to let him fuck them? Only an even more disgusting whore. Like Domeric.

 _Oh Lord Bolton,_ thinks Ramsay as Dom fucks himself like a slut. _If only your father knew._

Ramsay keeps staring as the rest of them move on, as Theon curls in on himself to sleep and Jon tries to wipe the taste of seed off his tongue, finding it rather unpleasant, and Robb moans to all the heavens, pleading with any god that might still be listening for release. Domeric hopes Ramsay's watching. He can just imagine the look on his face watching as his noble brother wanks his cock while riding another man. He wants Ramsay to know: no matter what he ever does to him, no matter how ruined he makes Domeric, he'll never be the one who ruined him.

But when he looks over his shoulder to see the look on Ramsay's face, he finds him grinning. _No_. And Domeric realises, Robb means nothing to Ramsay. He's just a toy. To him, this is no more than watching Domeric pleasure himself.

But pleasuring himself he is, and he can't hold out long, clenching tight around Robb's cock, rubbing up against all the right spots inside him, as he strokes his cock shamelessly and then _finally_ he's coming, weak and pitiful in a warm wet hole as Domeric spends across his chest, adding to the mess of seed and slaver covering him. As soon as he does Robb's body, abused beyond repair, gives up on him, sends him spiralling into a deep dark sleep that is mercifully dreamless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so when I started writing this fic I knew this would be the longest chapter but I didn't know it would be fifteen thousand goddamn words long.


	4. Her voice lurched among the mountains: 'touch me, touch me, touch me, touch me.'

Robb wakes in the morning and thinks, _gods, what sort of dream was that?_

He blinks as sun streams through his window, and he flinches away from it. He's cold though, very cold, so cold he assumes he must be alone in his bed, or rather, the bed Lord Bolton has given him. But no, he quickly realises – Lord Bolton was careful to give him the guest chambers with the best hearth, lest the heir to Winterfell complain to his lord father of neglectful treatment, and the one he turns his head to see, while fine, it's not quite as impressive and lies with only sputtering embers in it. His nightshirt is still pushed up above his belly, torn and stained, and a shiver runs through him as morning air brushes his wet thighs, now marked with faint purple bruises. When he turns his head the other way, he is not alone.

Jon and Theon both lie together, both a good distance from him, Jon's arms curled over Theon almost protectively. Neither of them looks exactly happy in sleep, but they at least seem at peace. By their side is the Bolton bastard, Ramsay, Robb barely remembers his name. He does seem happy, a sickening smile on his lips as he dreams, but he can't seem to get as close as he wishes – only one hand grasps at Theon's hip. Still, he grasps tight.

None of it was a dream.

Robb knew that, of course he knew that, but he didn't want to. He pushes himself up in silent horror. He feels much like he did when he was seven years old and first watched Father take a man's head – but then he had Jon there with him. _Oh gods, Jon,_ he thinks as he watches his brother frown even in sleep, his long face and dark hair, the look of the Starks, the look Robb always secretly envied, thought should be his birthright as Father's heir. _How will I ever look Father in the eye again?_

He wanted to, he always wanted to, but he swore he wouldn't. So long as it was all a dream, it didn't really matter, he might be wrong at heart but he need not be wrong elsewhere. But now? The sickness has spread, and it doesn't matter if he lops off every part of his body they touched, he cannot be cured.

He could have said no. He could have at least _tried_. But no, he gave in again and again, to every man. He was so easy.

Lord Bolton is gone, he realises, already fled his own chambers – mayhaps gone to the godswood before dawn to pray forgiveness. That's what Robb would do. And yet it seems pointless, for he knows he has made an abomination of himself in the eyes of the Old Gods and the New – what is even the point asking forgiveness?

He gets to his feet silently, careful not to wake his companions. His nightshirt falls about his knees and it's so tattered it might be more dignified to tear it off and go naked as a babe, but he can't. He already feels raw, ripped open – exposed.

He sneaks through the castle halls like a child until he makes it to his rooms – to Lord Bolton's rooms, another man he let fuck him like a whore, and one could say he's been paid quite generously – and quickly discards his sleepclothes into the still-burning fire before moving to the basin, still shaking with cold, but trying to wash away the stain of seed and sweat and sex. His bruises, however, cannot be hidden.

So then he crawls beneath the furs, soft as a mother wolf's pelt, and cries himself into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Jon rides back to Winterfell like a man riding to his own execution.

He knows he's being foolish, he knows Robb won't speak of it – it would spoil his name forever if anyone knew what happened, and that he allowed it to happen (it would spoil his name forever even if he didn't). He won't even speak of it to them, although it would be most stupid of him to when they have so many guards and servants about them. Still, he carries an as normal, ever the little lordling, as if nothing they've done has changed him at all. Maybe it hasn't. He thought he broke Robb, but perhaps Robb is unbreakable. Or perhaps there's nothing there to break.

Theon finds it easier, thinks Jon, still laughing and japing with Robb likes nothing's changed, and parading every serving girl who'll give him the time of day in front of them. _It's alright,_ Theon desperately tries to tell Robb with his laughing eyes and his fingers wandering along a wench's thigh, _this need not ever have happened. We can still be the same men we were before. You don't need to leave me._

Snow doesn't do that, always so sullen and miserable, and he's not going to miss an excuse to sulk. Theon tries to catch his eye sometimes, curious, but his longing gaze is all for Robb. Just not when Robb is gazing back. Theon doesn't know what he expected.

Theon is not Robb though, he never has been, and mayhaps that is the problem. Neither of them can look him in the eye, although Theon at least tries, even if he must cloud his vision with drink or wenches before he can. _I am a stranger to them now,_ thinks Robb. He is not what they imagined. He is not what anyone imagined. And maybe they will never feel like they know him again, no more than he knows himself.

* * *

He must say something to Father when he returns home, although he does not think his excuses are very convincing – “I'm not sure what he wanted _,”_ he mutters vaguely, and in truth he really still isn't, “mayhaps just to get the measure of us.” Lord Bolton does have the measure of him now, and that is one more thing Robb can add to his list of sins, having not only ruined himself, but having ruined himself at the hands of a man who could and would use it to destroy him, and his family. That is one more way he has betrayed his father.

Still, Father smiles at him and squeezes his shoulder fondly. “I'm just glad he sent you all back in one piece,” he says, and Robb doubts that's true.

His mother is both harder and easier, fussing over him in such a way that he knows she was worried, although she thinks him too old for her to say such a thing aloud. _I do not deserve your concern._ For a moment, he imagines if she did know, and the fury in her that could bring down all of Winterfell, leave them all smothered in stone and snow. It's a comforting image, but he knows that truly is just a fantasy.

Ultimately, Theon's 'pretend it never happened' approach proves useful, and the one they all adopt. Snow is sullen, Robb is lordly, and Theon is Theon – smiling, always smiling. _I am fine!_ he silently screams to the trees and the wind and the birds and whoever's listening. _No man has made a whore of me, no more than they have of your son and heir. Do you think we'd let someone do that to us?_

He and Snow even end up back in the armoury, filing swords silently, mindlessly. It's there that Snow, as always, has to ruin everything:

“I'm going to the Wall.”

Theon blinks at him, bewildered. “What?” is his first response. “When? Why?”

“Whenever Uncle Benjen is next here, I suppose,” shrugs Jon. Then he sighs. “And... surely you know why.”

Theon doesn't know what to do, what to say, and so his lips twist into a mocking smile. “The poor little bastard needs to reclaim his honour?”

Jon flinches, but it's not like he can say Theon's wrong. “That's part of it,” he admits, “but also...” He thinks of Robb, so haughty now, so distance, always by Father's side. Jon can't blame him for being afraid. “...I can't look at him.”

Theon's noticed that, and it's been rightfully pissing him off. _Get over it!_ he's wanted to shout at Snow half a dozen times, but that would mean acknowledging there's something to get over. “We didn't hurt him,” he insists. “He wanted it.”

More than anything, Theon needs to believe that. Robb is not hurt, no more than he is. It was stupid, he's concluded, but Theon's done lots of stupid things in his life and none of them were ever that bad – so this one isn't either. It won't ruin him, or Robb.

Jon nods. “He wanted it,” he says, “but I'm not sure that means we didn't hurt him.”

Theon has no real answer to that, but he finds himself muttering something anyway: “You can't go.” And his lips quirk at the irony even as he realises he's lost. Weeks ago, he would have been all too eager to have Snow piss off to the edge of the world, to finally have Robb all to himself, but now it's different – he can't have Robb lose Snow because of what happened, because if he isn't hurt now then losing Snow would make him so, and then they would all be ripped open and ruined. Even now he's said such words he feels ruined, he feels like he's opened up something inside him he can never close again, but he had no choice and it makes him angry, because why can't Snow ever leave well enough alone?

“Why not?” asks Jon, and he doesn't expect Theon to say anything like _I miss you,_ but looking in his eye there is something there, something he's clearly valiantly trying to hide and failing. It makes Jon think of how he felt that night when he was on his knees sucking Theon's cock, something he always thought he could never do, that it would make him feel too powerless, a whore like his mother before him, but it wasn't like that at all. He remembers how it was so much easier to be kind to Theon than it was to his own brother – because he never thought Theon was perfect, he never cared if Theon was perfect, and so it wasn't all such a shock. Theon is pacing towards him and his body has always been more honest than his mouth.

Then they're against the wall and they're kissing; Jon gasps but it shouldn't be a surprise really, and he gives in easily, winding a hand through Theon's long dark hair and tugging at his velvet trousers to pull him closer. Theon's afraid, or maybe hopeful, Jon will push him to his knees and treat him like Ramsay did, and Jon thinks Theon might do the same to prove a point, but instead they stay there like that, cursing and giggling between kisses as they awkwardly toss one another off, wrists bumping together, and it's all undeniably clumsy but undeniably fond, and as Robb watches them make love against the armoury wall he thinks it makes sense.

It's not perfect, what they're doing, but it doesn't have to be – they feel safe and warm anyways, that much is plain to see. They don't have to be perfect, they never have: the Ironborn hostage and the bastard son, no-one expects them to be. If someone else saw them together like this, they might laugh and giggle, and presumably Theon's father would be less than pleased, but no man of the North would really care. No-one would be disappointed. Jon and Theon have never had to be anything other than themselves, and so they can love one another because they _know_ one another.

So Robb walks away, untouched and utterly ruined.

Once they're done, Jon sighs as he looks into Theon's big blue eyes. It would be easy, he thinks. To take comfort from Theon, and try to forget Robb, to think the whole thing a miserable mistake. But he can't. He's never really liked Theon, but he knows the man deserves better than to be used as a substitute. Jon's honour lays in tatters at the Dreadfort, and yet it has not abandoned him completely.

“I'm still going, Theon,” he says, and Theon stiffens all over, his smile freezing in his face like its etched in stone. He knows now he will never be enough, that Snow doesn't want him, couldn't want him, will only have him when he can't bring himself to look his brother in the eye. Robb has whored himself to half the men in the Dreadfort and still, and still, Theon is not as good as him.

“Fine,” he shrugs. “I'm sure the Wall needs good cocksuckers.”

* * *

In truth, Roose is relieved once the Stark boys leave. He found them all quite dull, especially the young heir, and it was clear the hostage hadn't heard from his father in years – he would be no use for diplomacy. Also, it means he can deal with his sons without interference. He has Domeric by Ramsay's side in his solar, ready to dole out punishment. “Your brother told me he caught you with Lord Stark,” he says, “taking liberties with your betters.”

Domeric chews his lip nervously, perhaps ashamed to have informed on his own brother, but Roose pays it no heed. His son is too soft of heart. Ramsay simply grins smugly, and it annoys Roose that he looks so unafraid – he ought to find harsher punishments for the bastard, but he knows that will upset Domeric. “Oh, I might have done,” he says, “but I doubt I was the only one.”

Roose grows more irritated. Yes, Robb Stark is his liege's son, but only through an accident of history – the Boltons were kings as much as the Starks were, once. Ramsay is a miller woman's son, his blood will never be any better than that. Yet no matter how many times Roose reminds him, Ramsay does not know his place.

Then Ramsay turns to his brother, taking Roose by surprise. “Or would you say he took liberties with you?”

Roose watches as Domeric turns white. “ _Ramsay–_ ” he hisses.

“Either way though, you did take his cock like a champion. I was quite impressed, although I shouldn't have been surprised.” Ramsay turns back to Roose, still grinning. “Father's always going on about what an accomplished rider you are.”

At first, Roose assumes it's just another of Ramsay's foul lies, the sort he tosses about carelessly just to cause trouble. But from the look of mortification on his heir's face, he knows that isn't the case. “Domeric,” he says quietly, fixing his eye on his trueborn's face, “is this true?”

He hesitates, but Domeric knows better than to try and lie to his lord father. He nods, ashamed. “It is, Father,” he says. “But–”

Roose raises a hand to silence him. He knows Domeric will have an excuse, a reason it is not all his fault, but it makes no difference. He is spoiled now. Ruined. Any man could have him. He's hardly any better than Ramsay.

Anger is an unfamiliar emotion to Roose, but he supposes this is it.

“You may go. I have nothing more to say to you.”

Domeric does, leaving Roose alone with Ramsay, still wearing that cretinous grin. He sighs deeply. “I suppose this was all your doing somehow?” he asks, and Ramsay shrugs. Alright, things didn't all go quite as he planned, and he's a little annoyed he's still not had a turn on his brother himself, but still – he got the correct _result_. “Do you expect me to be impressed? Do you expect me to praise your planning and forethought? Do you expect me to tell you you are my true son?”

“Oh no Father,” says Ramsay. “I know my place. I know I'm not good for anything but this.” And he slides to his knees, smirking. “But neither is he.”

 


End file.
